



Che Song of a Heart. 


press Comments. 


The book breathes a lovely spirit, and one can not bnt feel that 
were there more such souls on earth as the one which speaks 
from evory'page, the world would be a better and happier abode. 
The book is daintily gotten up in gray covers, upon which is a 
branch of holly with its green leaves and red berries, whereon 
perches a bird .— Boston Transcript. 

There has come to our table a little book decidedly out of the 
ordina*y in its motive and method, but one which we feel sure 
will afford pleasure to a large class of thoughtful readers. It’s 
title is *‘The Song of a Heart,” by Helene Hall (Mrs. H.V. Boynton). 

The whole is comprised in less than 200 small pages, a harrow 
compass within which to tell the story of a life, its leading inci- 
dents and interests, its deep experiences of love and sorrow, its 
family attachments, its friendships, its grave wonderings and its 
modest judgments. But it, is all done with simplicity, essential 
fulness and distinctness. In the nature of the case it is a sketch; 
but it is free, sincere, vital, suggestive, in a degree that causes 
one to marvel how the story could be developed in a manner so 
satisfying for its completeness. Before one has read it through 
tii e fine significance of the title becomes obvious. There is 
nothing extraordinary in the nature or the circumstances of the 
life portrayed. The lovable girl and woman, who sets down once 
a year brief memoranda of what her life has been and what it 
lias meant, has no distinction except native good sense and large 
capacity of appreciation of goodness and beauty. It is a charming 
portraiture of one such woman, whose lot was the common one, 
without great fortune, without strange experiences, without 
exaggerated passions, but loyal, wholesome, glad, reverent and 
sympathetic, a type of the thousands of American women, 
scarcely known beyond their domestic circle, whose wealth is 
virtue, * whose life is service, whose joy is affection. Only a 
woman could reveal a woman of this character, with adequate 
sympathy. She is one for whom the professional writer of fiction 
has little use. She would hardly be available for any other 
fiction than this autobiographic form, if indeed, this be not more 
truth than fiction. At all events, it is a genuine revelation of 
womanhood in its proper nobility and peculiar grace .— Boston 
Herald. 

“Helene Hall” is the pen name under which Mrs. H. V. 
Boynton of this city has written this dainty story. Yet it is 
hardly a story, for it is in the form of an 'annual diary, the 
entries being* made each Christmas day. But inasmuch as it 
tells the tale of a woman’s life, with its* lights and shadows, its 


Che Song of a Reart. 


romances, its tragedies, its aspirations and its deep reverence for 
higher powers, it may be so classed without doing violence to any 
literary traditions. Mrs. Boynton’s identity was disclosed 
accidentally, but fortunately for her friends, for it has given to 
them an added interest in a book which would on its own merits 
attract attention through its gentle charm and its wholesome 
spirit.— Washington Star. 


An interesting and altogether charming story is “ The Song of 
a Heart,” by Helene Hall. It is a simple story oi‘ home life in the 
last generation, and is really a rest and a pleasure to read, after 
the numerous swashbuckler, cut-and-slash novels of the day.— 
Cincinnati Commercial Tribune. 


As a story of a quiet home it has a soothing effect on those 
worn and flurried with the strain of our restless modern life. It 
is a narrative of happy sheltered conditions pleasantly and 
naturally written. As a journal it has an unique iutere>t, and 
even as a tale it holds the attention. The story closes with the 
death of the writer, which comes as a fitting close toa long and ideal 
married life. Current events are often vigorously discussed. 
Some of the philosophical ex post ions are worthy of mature writers 
of this age. — Victoria Daily Times. 


Clear as the robin’s notes, tenderly human and true, is the 
record of the young girl who^e life story is told under the above 
title. The glorious festival of Christmas for more than four 
decades marks the intervals of retrospection and transcription of 
the story of a beautiful life. The authoress has presented an 
admirable character, one worthy of imitation. — Dominicana. 


“The Pong of a Heart; Christmas Mile Stones,” by Helene 
Hall, is the simple life story of a woman, told in the form of a 
journal, with an entry made in it every Christmas. The first 
entry is made in 18'»2, when the writer was but eleaven years of 
age. \Vhen she finally lays down her pen in 1S9<> the hand of 
another records her death. The charm of the record is in its 
simplicity, its entire freedom from words of bitterness and com 
plaint, and the picture it presents as a whole of a contented life. 
— Han Francisco Chronicle. 


THE ROBERT CLARKE COMPANY, 
Publishers* Cincinnati, Ohio* 














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, 















































THE SONG 
OF A HEART 

CHRISTMAS MILE-STONES 

BY 

HELENE HALL 



THE ROBERT CLARKE CO 
CINCINNATI - - - - 1901 


Copyright , 1900, by 

The Robert Clarke Co. 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 


One Copy Received 

JUL 25 1908 



• < 
*.4 < 


PRESS OF THE ROBERT CLARKE CO. 
CINCINNATI, U. S. A. 


To those who asked for the 
story, this history of a van- 
ished life is dedicated, with 
the hope that it has not been 
written in vain. 



The Song of a Heart 


Chicago, Christmas, 1852. 

Mother wants me to keep a daily 
record of all my life. Slie says it will 
be such a pleasure to read it when I 
am old. But the very thought of a 
journal is doleful to me. If I live 
fifty years there would be more than 
eighteen thousand times to write. If it 
was only once a year it would not be 
so tiresome ; perhaps I could do that. 
There will be a great many quiet days 
when nothing happens worth writing 
about, but then the story would be a 
short one and easy to read . Christmas 
will be a good day to write, because 
there is always so much that is nice to 

(1) 


2 


The Song of a Heart. 


remember, and I would like to read 
about it after a long time. 

How queer it is to think that by and 
by I shall be old ! I am just eleven 
now, and although it does not take 
long to count this, there are some 
things that seem a long time ago. 
Once I remember coming down to 
breakfast, smoothing my clean white 
apron, and as I passed father’s chair, 
he caught and tossed me up so high, 
I was close to the brass eagle on top 
of the clock. And I had the measles 
years ago. I do not know how many. 
And I remember walking home from 
church with father, holding on to one 
of his fingers. I could just reach it 
easily. I am almost tall enough now 
to take his arm, and before long I shall 
be a young lady. 

We are all very happy to-day for the 


The Song of a Heart. 


8 


doctor says Tom is going to live. Last 
night we thought he was dying ; now 
mother says he is her Christmas pres- 
ent. We have all kept quite still 
so that we would not disturb him. I 
have a wax doll and some furniture 
and grace hoops and a lovely book 
about cats. But I would rather build 
mud houses, and play horses and sol- 
diers with Tom. 

This afternoon I sat in the parlor and 
tried to listen while father and John 
were talking about colored people and 
slavery. It seems to me they always 
talk about this ; at least as long ago as 
I can remember it was the same when- 
ever John came. Father says the whole 
country will be stirred up to war about 
it after a while. I would like to un- 
derstand what it all means. 

This year I have taken a long journey 


4 


The Song of a Heart. 


in a railroad train, the first I ever saw. 
Father and mother took me to Boston. 
We climbed to the top of the State 
House and afterwards went on board a 
ship that was in Boston Harbor and go- 
ing to Australia. Then we traveled up 
and down Washington street and I 
bought some beautiful paper dolls. 
When we came out of the store I was 
all turned around and could not tell 
which way to go, but father knew. 
Another day we went to Bunker Hill 
Monument, and Lexington and Con- 
cord. Grandfather was there in the 
Revolutionary War. He was a soldier 
and a minute man, and his com- 
pany received the personal thanks of 
George Washington for their bravery 
in storming Dorchester Heights. It 
must be a grand thing to fight for the 
country, but it does not seem to me 


The Song of a Heart. 5 

I could because I am so afraid of 
guns. 

On the way back to Chicago there 
was a collision between our train and 
another, and several people were hurt. 
I was frightened so that my head ached 
badly, and father gave me some nux 
vomica. But the name sounded as if 
it would make me much worse, so in- 
stead of swallowing it I threw it down 
behind my pillow. Perhaps that was 
not right, but the pain stopped after a 
while . 

A few weeks after we came home 
Tom was taken sick, and it has been 
very lonesome playing all by myself. 


Cincinnati, Christmas, 1853. 
Last September, Hester and I came 
here to boarding-school, and we are to 


6 


The Song of a Heart. 


stay thirty-two weeks . To-day it is a 
lonesome place, for Hester has gone out 
to dinner. The teachers would not let 
me go because I am not old enough. 
Hester looked like a queen in her soft, 
trailing dress. How handsome she is 
with her large dark eyesj and wavy 
hair that catches the light like black 
satin. I think it would not be so stupid 
dressing for dinner if I could look as 
she does when ready to go. How happy 
it would make me to be so handsome, 
but it will never be possible, for my 
eyes are such a queer color and my 
hair is really red. 

We had a nice Christmas box from 
home to-day. There were pretty things 
for us to wear, a large cake and box of 
candy and a picture of Tom in a cun- 
ning little case of velvet. He has on 
a jacket with a white vest, the sleeves 


The Song of a Heart. 


7 


cut up oyer white ones and laced across 
with cord, and he has a broad white 
collar. I wish I could squeeze him. 
He sent me a nest of boxes and a pair 
of fancy garters. Mother sent my white 
china lamb with the other things, and 
when I am lonesome I hold it close 
to my cheek. It will be a happy time 
when I am once more home with mother 
and Tom. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1854,. 

This has been a splendid Christmas. 
John and Annie have come and Alfred 
is home from college. We have a whole 
room full of presents. Annie gave Tom 
a new sled, and he and I have been 
coasting. She is always so kind to us, 
and she is as beautiful as Hester, but 
very different. I think angels must 


8 


The Song of a Heart. 


have such soft blue eyes and hair just 
like gold. I dearly love her, but think 
I love Tom best of all. When Hester 
and I came home from boarding-school, 
mother met us at the door and Tom was 
close behind her. I caught him in my 
arms and whirled him round and round 
until we were dizzy, and his head was 
bumped against the wall. I was so 
frightened and sorry, but he said it was 
all right. He is such a dear, brave 
little fellow, and so good natured. He 
will let me dress him up in mother’s 
skirts sometimes, and he walks up and 
down the room while I laugh. Then, 
when we go together on errands and I 
want to take his cap, and give him my 
sun-bonnet, he is always ready to do it, 
and he looks so funny I cannot walk 
straight for laughing. Perhaps I look 
as funny in his cap, but he marches 


The Song of a Heart. 


9 


along as solemn as a judge. I wonder 
what the people think when we walk 
into the store. 

Annie and Hester have been singing 
together at the piano, and when they 
stopped we heard some people clapping 
their hands in front of our house. 
They were singing a beautiful song of 
Mendelssohn’s, and I do not wonder 
at the clapping, for their voices sound 
very sweet. 

Tom and I are going to school to- 
gether after the holidays. It is a small 
school, and the teacher has funny curls, 
shaped just like shavings, and Tom 
says she has a sharp pointed nose. 
Mother took us to see her. Coming 
home Tom and I stopped a moment to 
slide on a frozen gutter, and the ice 
broke and my white pantalettes were 
horribly splashed with muddy water. 


10 The Song of a Heart. 


It seems to me I am always unlucky. 
Only a few days ago I climbed our 
fence to see something, and a loose 
board flew up and mashed my finger 
nail. I counted four scars and three 
black and blue places on my arms the 
day we went sledding. 


Chicago, Christmas, 1855 . 

This is rather a lonesome day. John 
and Annie have gone to California to 
live, and it is so far off they cannot 
come home every year. Alfred is away 
at college, and only Hester, Tom and I 
are here with father and mother. I 
have a new school now, and enjoy my 
studies more than ever before, but it is 
in Milwaukee, ninety miles away, and 
I come home only once a week. I was 


The Song of a Heart. 


11 


dreadfully homesick for a while. But 
it is a beautiful place with high bluffs 
on the lake, with its blue surface and 
“whitecaps” and far-off sails that I 
love to watch. They seem like fairy 
stories I have read. I wonder where 
they are going, and who is on the ves- 
sels, and whether they are happy or 
sad ; and then it seems as if my life 
is sailing away with them on a wide 
sea far off that will carry me by and by, 
whither? It is lovely to dream it all 
out just as I want it to be, but the re- 
membrance of study hours and recita- 
tions always brings me back with a 
start, and my mind scrambles back to 
my books, for they keep me quite busy. 
It will take nearly six years to finish 
the course. By that time I ought to 
know a great deal, but I shall never be 
handsome like Annie and Hester. My 


12 The Song of a Heart. 


mouth and teeth are all right, perhaps, 
but my red hair and queer gray eyes 
spoil the whole thing. It does seem to 
me bad, but mother tells me that if I 
am only kind and gentle and unselfish, 
people will love me just as well as if 
my face was beautiful. That is a com- 
fort, but I would like to be handsome. 

We had a pleasant time to-day with 
our presents, but Christmas does not 
seem like itself unless all the family is 
here. Next year the others will come, 
and we will have the j oiliest time. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1856. 
Hurrah for a happy time. John and 
Annie have come to spend the winter 
and spring with us. They have been 
having earthquakes, and their cook got 


The Song of a Heart. 


18 


drunk and came very near setting the 
house on fire. John says they have de- 
cided to try the “worn-out East” for a 
while. Annie is so lovely to look at, 
just like a picture, and she is kind and 
gentle to everybody, never losing her 
temper and never speaking a hasty 
word. If only I could be like her. 

Alfred came last night to spend his 
vacation at home. I am very proud of 
him. He is handsome too, although 
he has red hair like mine, and he knows 
a great deal and will some day be a 
great man. He and Hester play duets 
on the piano. Perhaps Tom and I will 
by and by, but I must practice better 
than now. I mean to, but the sunshine 
tempts me out doors, and the coasting 
and sledding are so fine. 

Annie gave me some gloves and a 
. beautiful bonnet to-day. These are my 


14 The Song of a Heart. 

first kid ones. I have never liked to 
wear the other kinds ; they creep on my 
fingers and make me shiver ; these are 
smooth and nice. I suppose we must 
have Sunday clothes, but I am glad 
they hang in the closet during the 
week. No sitting on the grass, or 
playing with the cats and dogs, or 
climbing about anywhere, if I had to 
wear them all the time. But oh dear, 
mother says I cannot do these things 
much longer, being so tall and so old. 
How disagreeable grown people’s lives 
must be ; and yet father and mother 
seem to enjoy themselves. But I would 
not change places. Tom and I surely 
have the best of it ; out doors all sum- 
mer with the cats and dogs and chickens, 
or rowing in Tom’s boat ; and out doors 
every moment we can be in the winter, 
sledding and coasting and snowballing 


The Song of a Heart. 15 


each other. Tom’s snowballs are soft, 
too ; they never hurt when they strike. 
Sometimes I wish we two could stay 
just as we are, always. It is not pleas- 
ant to think of Tom growing tall and 
old. Neither do I want to be old 
myself, only I would like to have a 
train dress. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1857 . 

How impossible it would have seemed 
last year that the next Christmas would 
be darkened by the story of what has 
happened since then. The year came 
in like other years. At first I was very 
happy. Everything went swimmingly 
at school, and it is a good one. March 
brought the spring vacation, and I came 
home. Alfred could not leave college. 
But for this it would have been like 


16 The Song of a Heart. 


Christmas, for John and Annie were 
here. How beautiful and lovely she 
was, and I never thought she could die. 
She never seemed sad or pale or very 
religious, like the people one reads about 
who are not going to live long. But 
one morning little Annie was born, and 
in a few days my beautiful, darling 
sister was dead. 

What a terrible thing death is. I 
stole into her room after she had been 
left alone. It was awfully still. She 
was so white and cold, the lids close 
shut over her dark blue eyes. In a 
slender transparent vase, a long- 
stemmed half-blown rose that she had 
held in her hand only a few hours be- 
fore, drooped over the edge, its life 
gone out with hers. I touched her 
cheek and spoke her name, but no 
smile answered me, and my heart felt 


The Song of a Heart. 17 


as numb and cold as she looked. Even 
when she was carried into the vault 
and the door closed on her, I could not 
shed a tear, and was conscious only of 
that numb coldness that made me 
shiver in my warm clothes. 

Little Annie was baptized at the 
funeral, the baptismal bowl standing 
on the coffin just over the mother’s 
dead heart — the heart that would have 
been the baby’s warm shelter through 
all its life. It was a pitiful sight, al- 
most cruel it seemed to me as I listened 
while the minister told us that the 
real heart does not die, and that death 
cannot destroy love . If this is true , that 
mother will still shelter and brood over 
the young soul, .even more tenderly 

. fi r ' 

perhaps, than t rfc could under earthly 
conditions. But it is not easy to make 
this seem real or satisfying. Dear little 


18 The Song of a Heart. 


bairn ! For the love I bear your dead 
mother, you shall stay in my heart al- 
ways, no matter who else has a home 
there. 

Annie had not been gone many 
months before father began to cough. 
His lungs had never been strong, and 
the doctor said his sorrow over Annie’s 
early death had weakened them still 
more. Mother was greatly worried, 
and sent for Doctor Reynolds, who is a 
celebrated physician. His very pres- 
ence has brightened father, and I hope 
he can cure him. He is not like any 
doctor we ever had before. As he 
comes into the room, I draw a long 
breath and feel as if everything would 
be all right. When he takes father’s 
hand and looks at him through such 
kind, steady, penetrating eyes, I am 
sure he must get well. 


The Song of a Heart. 


19 


We have had a mournful Christmas. 
It does not seem as if we could ever 
care for presents now that one of us is 
gone forever. Dear little Annie is all 
we have left of her except the beautiful 
memory, but nothing can happen to 
mar that. And the baby is so sweet. 
When she looks up at us with her 
great blue eyes so like her mother’s, 
I love her for both together, and cannot 
hold her close enough in my arms. 


Chicago, Christmas, 1858. 

Only Hester, Tom and I at home to- 
day, and how lonesome it is. Father 
and mother have gone to the mountains 
for a long trip, to see if it will cure his 
cough. Alfred graduated from college 
this year, and came home to spend the 


20 The Song of a Heart. 


summer. We are all proud of him for 
he took the highest honors. Now he 
has gone away to study law. How 
long it does take a man to go through 
all the schools. I wonder why women 
do not study as many years. Is our 
life less noble or important that it 
needs less preparation? It seems to me 
we ought to know just as much as they 
do ; certainly we ought to know just 
as much about the laws and institutions 
of our country, and the dangers that 
threaten it, so that we can love it in- 
telligently. 

Our minister has been preaching 
against slavery in America, and he 
shows plainly what an awful thing it is. 
He thinks we will have war over it, if it 
is not abolished soon. I cannot under- 
stand how the South can believe it is 
right to buy and sell human beings. I 


The Song of a Heart. 21 


fairly loathe the thought, and when- 
ever there is a chance I will say so. 

Last summer I saw such a handsome 
young man at church. He was straight 
and tall, with brown, wavy hair, and 
brown eyes, and a beautiful smile. He 
was introduced to me at a church pic- 
nic. I like him very much. 

In November I was taken ill with 
fever. The doctor said it was “low 
nervous” — but I was not conscious of 
being nervous. The only trouble was 
lying awake hour after hour at night. 
That was nearly eight weeks ago, but at 
last I begin to feel light, as if something 
heavy had been lifted from me, and the 
doctor says I may go to church next 
Sunday. This is the first time I have 
ever been ill, except when I had the 
measles. 

It is a long time since my handsome 


22 The Song of a Heart. 


friend called to see me. I hope he 
will be at church on Sunday. Per- 
haps he will not be as glad to see me as 
I shall be to see him, but I shall be 
glad to see everybody. It is so good 
to be alivej and well once more. It is 
strange that I can be so happy when 
father is suffering, and dear Annie is 
gone, but I cannot help it. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1859. 

Shall I ever hear 1859 spoken of 
without remembering it all, from the 
snows of January to the snows of No- 
vember? No, I cannot forget. It 
seems ungrateful in me to have been 
happy or light-hearted while father is 
so ill. He and mother came home in 
June, but he was no better. We are 


The Song of a Heart. 23 


afraid he will never be well. He looks 
thin and pale, and coughs very hard. 
But for this we would have been glori- 
ously happy to have them back. Home 
is a homesick place when any of the 
family are out of it, or in trouble, and 
mother has never been away before, 
except when I was with her. It was 
so good to see her coming up the path. 
I felt as if I wanted to get into her lap 
and purr — if I only knew how. She 
is with father nearly all the time, 
leaving Hester to take charge of the 
house, and Tom and I go to school. 
I do not forget about father, and would 
do anything to help him. But all 
summer life was so fair and sweet. 
The skies were so blue, and the sun- 
light so clear, and my heart reflected 
the brightness, and would be happy 
even through our anxiety. Most of 


24 The Song of a Heart. 


the evenings were spent with my school 
and class mates, but often I saw my 
tall beautiful friend. And there were 
boat rides, and concerts, and socials, 
and moonlight walks under the trees, 
and it was such a delight to live. I 
am almost afraid to write even here, 
where no eye but my own will read, 
how much I have loved him. The 
very touch of his hand on mine was a 
delight, and the low tones of his voice, 
when he spoke to me alone, made me 
catch my breath. But I can never 
marry him — never, though my heart 
should ache all my life. Last Septem- 
ber he was taken very ill and for weeks 
I did not see him. Then I heard that 
he would die. I could not study, for 
his face came between the page and my 
eyes, and at night I thought of him 
dying perhaps, as Annie died, and then 


The Song of a Heart. 


25 


lying in that same cold stillness, so 
that I could not sleep. But one clear 
cold day in November the news came 
that he was better. How the sun shone 
as I came home from school, and my 
feet felt like India rubber balls. Then 
one afternoon he came to see me. Ex- 
cept that he was thin and pale he was 
unchanged in looks, but something was 
wrong. Some one had been entertain- 
ing our friends with the story that we 
were engaged, and he thought I had 
broken the agreement we made to tell 
no one, because we were both too 
young to marry for several years. But 
when he said so to me, and I assured 
him that to keep my promise to him, 
I had not even let my mother know, 
he did not seem to believe me, for he 
replied, ‘ ‘There was no one else to tell 
it.” I stood up then, took off the ring 


26 The Song of a Heart. 


he had given me, and handed it to him 
saying, “If you cannot believe my 
word there is only one thing to do, 
and that is to say good-bye.” Then, 
somehow, I turned and left him. I 
went to my own room, put on hat and 
coat, slipped out through the back 
door, and walked away. It was the 
twenty-ninth of November, and so cold 
the white snow creaked under my feet. 
The sunset light lay crimson as blood 
over the city, and the winter silence in 
the air made me think of that other 
awful silence I knew. When I came 
home the stars were shining, and Hester 
told me I did wrong to stay out so late. 
But for once I did not answer, and sat 
all the evening in a large easy chair by 
the fire. Tom teazed me to talk, but I 
could not. I wanted to see mother, 
but she was tired and father needed 


The Song of a Heart. 


27 


her, and I crept into bed in the dark. 
The next time I saw my friend was at 
a social meeting of the Bible class, but 
he did not come to speak to me during 
the evening. I suppose it could not 
have been expected that he would. 
There was music, and some one sung 
Longfellow’s Rainy Day. I felt the 
rain and the damp wind and was 
blinded by the fast falling leaves. 
Can one’s whole life be such a rainy 
day? 

I have been at school steadily and 
the Christmas vacation is very short. 
My lessons are learned, but through 
all my work I feel like a music box 
wound up, that by and by will stop. 
Sometimes I meet my friend on the 
street, but he only bows his handsome 
head gravely, and passes on. How 
could he have disbelieved my word? 


28 The Song of a Heart. 


I would have taken his against the 
world. I know now who made all the 
trouble with c :her thoughtless talk. She 
is much older than we are, and it 
seems as if she ought to have known 
better, for she only guessed at the 
truth. I had such bitter feelings to- 
ward her at first, though it was all 
wrong, for if one has any real Chris- 
tianity this is a time when it should 
count ; and, after all, what she did was 
a small thing. If he had believed me 
as I trusted him, no mere gossip could 
have separated us. So the thought of 
her does not trouble me any longer ; 
but will my heart be as heavy as it is 
now all my life? I am just eighteen, 
and people live to be seventy-five or 
eighty years old. That is a long time. 


The Song of a Heart. 


29 


Chicago, Christmas, 1860. 

This is my last Christmas vacation. 
Next June I shall graduate and be at 
home all the time, and how much time 
there will be — no half hours tolled off 
with bells, but long free hours follow- 
ing each other silently. It will be 
vacation all the year. 

Poor father is only a wreck of him- 
self ; it is pitiful to see him now. He 
used to seem very strong to us, and we 
children were always a little afraid of 
him because he was so grave and dig- 
nified, but now that he is broken down, 
there is no room left for anything but 
pity and tenderness. It is dreadful to 
see him suffer as he does ; it seems to 
me I would even rather have him die. 

This year some old friends who 
moved to a distant city five years ago 
have come back to live. When I was 


BO The Song of a Heart. 


eleven years old, I knew one of the 
sons, but he never had much to say to 
me. He was several years older than 
I, and always talked with the young 
ladies. He is twenty-five now. He 
was a hero of mine long ago, though 
what for it would not be easy to tell, 
for I knew nothing of him, except 
that he was unusually polite, and 
said to be a fine scholar. Whenever 
I happened to see him he was poring 
over books. He seems rather quiet 
and dignified and particular, but I 
like him fairly well. 

Dr. Reynolds came last month to see 
father — the same steady clear eyes full 
of light, and that winning smile and 
voice of music. I saw him several 
times and talked with him. He was 
very kind to me, and when he left, it 
seemed as if a dear friend had gone. 


The Song of a Heart. 


31 


But he does not think father can live 
much longer. How can we bear it? I 
begin to feel the awful stillness again, 
and the cold and the loneliness. 

And then that shadow on my heart — 
sometimes I almost forget it, and then 
suddenly it grows dark. Not all the 
time, but often, it dims the blue sky 
and the sunshine. It is strange, too, 
for I am quite sure my life could not 
be happy with anybne who did not 
trust me absolutely, as I would him. 
So I would not dare marry my friend, 
even if he should come and beg me to 
do it ; but there is no danger of that. 
Nevertheless, he gave me a few happy 
months, and I will always remember 
him gratefully for it. 

My twenty-five year old friend, John 
Thornton, does not think me too young 
to talk to now. He met me the other 


32 The Song of a Heart. 


day on the street, and actually turned, 
walking with me some distance. I 
think he is a straight-forward, honor- 
able fellow. While he was talking, I 
wondered if he ever doubted his friends ; 
but then it cannot make any difference 
to me whether he does or not. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1861 . 

This has been a blessed year for 
father. In the early part of it, while 
deep snows lay on the ground, a tele- 
gram summoned me home, and on Sun- 
day morning mother came to my room 
and kissed me with her eyes full of 
tears, saying, 4 ‘Dear child, your father 
has just fallen asleep.” He went so 
quickly they could not even call me in 
time, and so quietly they scarcely knew 


The Song of a Heart. 33 


he was near his end. Oh, how sweet 
must the rest be to him after his years 
of suffering. 

Alfred came home and stayed until 
mother could make her plans. He was 
a great comfort to her. I wish he could 
live with us, but he is to practice law 
in New York City, and mother, Hester, 
Tom and I will stay in our old home. 

John has taken little Annie with him 
to his new home, and a new mother. 
It was very hard to let her go. The 
last night she was with us, I went to 
look at her as she was sleeping. Per- 
haps it was all wrong, but dearly as we 
love her, I wished while standing there 
that she was with her dead mother. I 
am so afraid she will not be trained as 
Annie would have liked, or that some- 
thing evil may happen to her. We do 
not altogether like John’s new wife, but 


34 The Song of a Heart. 


even if we did, she can never take 
Annie’s place, or seem to me like little 
Annie’s mother. 

In April of this year the civil war 
broke out. It had been expected for a 
long time by many thinking people, al- 
though the idea was ridiculed by the 
majority of public men who said it 
would never come. I soon begun to 
learn what love of the flag and country 
meant. We scraped lint and made red 
flannel shirts for the soldiers. I wanted 
to go as nurse in the army, but the 
powers that be said I was not old 
enough. Life seems to be cut off at 
both ends. First we are not old enough 
and then we are too old, with a working 
place only in between, and we sleep 
away much of that. There was a camp 
near the city, and we carried provisions 
to the men, and then watched them 


The Song of a Heart. 85 


drill. Most of them were personal 
friends, or people we know. We have 
scarcely an acquaintance left, now they 
are gone. John Thornton went ; my 
tall, handsome, old time friend stays at 
home. He is one of the few that do 
stay. Oh dear, I love to see handsome 
people, but it is a great deal better to 
be brave and patriotic. Alfred wants 
to go, but he inherits father’s weak 
lungs, and they refused to take him. If 
father was alive and well, Tom says he 
would go, although he is only fourteen 
years old. But he will not leave mother, 
and I am glad of this, for he is too 
young to be in camp or battle. 

The regiment had a grand parade be- 
fore it left. Hester had guests who 
filled the carriage, but Tom and I were 
determined to see it. He had hard 
work finding a conveyance, for every- 


36 The Song of a Heart. 


thing was engaged ; but at last he ap- 
peared with a horse and buggy. I 
looked at the horse and then at him, and 
said, “Tom, it is doubtful.” “Don’t 
look at it,” he replied, “we are going 
to have a jolly good time.” So we 
started off. After a while I said, “Tom, 
it is not doubtful, it is certain.” Tom 
pulled at the reins, and “clucked” to 
the horse. I offered to use the whip a 
little, but he said it would not make 
any difference. Finally we reached the 
ground and turned into place to see 
all the brave show. Handsome turn- 
outs, well dressed women, the shining 
bayonets, the blue coats, brighter and 
cleaner, alas, than we shall ever see 
them again, and the gay music. Tom 
was in a seventh heaven of delight. 
Suddenly a “wheel” of the troops 
brought them directly on our track. 


The Song of a Heart. S7 


The horse stood serene. “Oh, Tom,” 
I said, “make him go.” “But he 
won’t,” answered Tom, and in the face 
of all that array, a soldier had to step 
up and lead us out of the line. How 
my cheeks burned ; but Tom said, 
“Nonsense, nobody cares ; it is n’t our 
horse.” After this I was in dread till 
the parade was over. Then the band 
led the way down the road into the city 
playing patriotic airs, and the soldiers 
followed, and all the fine carriages. 
We waited for them to pass, so as not 
to be in the way again. But suddenly 
the horse started, and away we went 
ahead of carnages, ahead of soldiers, 
ahead of the band. With clattering 
hoofs and rattling wheels, we led every 
thing. I begged Tom to stop him. “But 
he won’t stop,” said Tom, and so we 
tore along till the stable was reached. 


38 The Song of a Heart. 


I laughed till the tears ran down my 
cheeks, and Tom said the other people 
had a stupid time compared with ours, 
but Hester was horrified when she saw 
us pass. 

In June, I graduated from school. 
Commencement day was beautiful, the 
hall was crowded, and the honors fell 
to me, but my head was so full of the 
war I did not care as much about it as 
I expected. A year ago I would have 
been very proud. Is all life like that, I 
wonder? Do all our beautiful ideals 
fade into nothingness as we stretch out 
our hands to grasp them? I will not 
believe it, though it has been so already 
with me. 

Christmas to-day does not seem like 
the old times. Father and Annie gone, 
little Annie in care of a stranger, and 
Alfred far away. And this terrible 


The Song of a Heart. 


89 


war — who knows when it will end? 
We at home who do not fight are anxious 
and troubled for our brave soldiers day 
and night. But, however long it may 
take, I hope slavery will be forever 
abolished, and the question of secession 
settled for all time. 


Chicago, Christmas, 1862. 

Alas, to-day we are more separated 
than ever. Mother has gone to pay a 
visit to Alfred, and Tom is with them 
preparing for college. Hester and I are 
the only ones left to keep the old hearth 
warm. We have sent presents to them 
and a box has come for us, but opening 
one box and eating Christmas dinner 
with only two at the table do not make a 
hilarious Christmas. I have had a vague 


40 The Song of a Heart. 


lonely feeling all day, and even now 
with the curtains drawn, and bright 
lights^and glowing fires^it seems dreary. 

After mother left us, in August, 
Hester and I went to see the falls of 
Minnehaha and St. Anthony. It was 
a delightful trip. Even now I can close 
my eyes and see that sunset on the Mis- 
sissippi ; the sky so clear and still, its 
white clouds piled high and close to- 
gether in the east as if to leave a royal 
highway in the west for the departing 
sun ; the broad, quiet river here bend- 
ing away from and there curving 
towards the eastern shore where the 
dark green trees grew thickly, and the 
wild vines swung down from the brown 
branches kissing their own reflections in 
the clear water ; the white steamer mov- 
ing steadily northward, breathing softly 
like a tired child in sleep, the gray smoke 


The Song of a Heart. 41 


circling around us and then floating 
south into the deepening shadows of 
twilight. In the west a wonderful riot 
of glowing crimson and orange, and 
higher up soft yellow and rose meeting 
the blue above and melting it into a 
delicate purple ; then crimson and pur- 
ple and orange flung back on the water 
till it became a mass of gems and 
gold, and over it all Venus glittering 
and shaking off light like a diamond. 
The very leaves trembled with rapture 
and whispered softly to each other as 
the night came on. Even the tossing 
falls of St. Anthony and the silver spray 
of Minnehaha were not more beautiful 
than that hour on the river. 

When we reached St. Paul, we were 
told the Indians were making trouble, 
and some of the party decided to go 
back with the boat in the morning, but 


42 The Song of a Heart. 


Hester said she would not think of it. 
She did not believe the Indians were 
very near, and besides, they would 
come to the town where the people 
were, and not go off into the country 
where there was nobody to fight ; or if 
they came near us, we could probably 
buy them off with silver. So we asked 
for horses and a driver and had a de- 
lightful day. We saw only one Indian, 
and he was dressed in white men’s 
clothes. 

This winter we met Dr. Reynolds 
again. He was here for a medical con- 
vention that lasted two weeks, and 
dined with us twice. Hester and I 
agree as to him, that he is one of the 
finest men we ever knew. I never tire 
of watching his face, and hearing him 
talk. Next time he comes to our city 
he will bring his wife. I hope I shall 


The Song of a Heart. 48 


like her, but am afraid she is not like 
him. In her picture, the face is a stern 
one, and her eye looks as hard and 
opaque as his is soft and clear. Hester 
has met her, and says she is a very fine 
woman, but something in her voice as 
she says so makes me think she does 
not quite like her nevertheless. How- 
ever, I should not mind that if the pic- 
ture suited me, for she and I seldom 
like the same people or the same things ; 
and she thinks we ought to be hand- 
somely dressed for dinner every day, 
but I like to have a racing walk with 
Bruno to the last moment, and then 
shake my dress, wash my hands, and 
sit down to the table. The only thing 
we do agree about is traveling. At this 
we get on famously. We always like 
the same trips, and like them at the 


44 The Song of a Heart. 


same time. So peace undisturbed reigns 
when we are planning our vacations. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1863 . 

How sunny and how shadowed this 
year has been, Sunny for me in my 
little life, shadowed for all of us in the 
larger life of country. In January, 
Dr. Reynolds and his wife were our 
guests. What a personality he has ; 
full of fire and magnetism, and yet so 
gentle and kind. I am very proud of 
his friendship, but Mrs. Reynolds, I 
like her and I like her not. She cer- 
tainly has some admirable traits, and 
can be charming, yet sometimes for a 
moment she is hard, like her eyes in the 
picture. If she was judge I think she 
would make no allowance for force of 


The Song of a Heart. 


45 


circumstance, or power of tempation. 
I would not like to fall into her hands 
if she even thought I had done wrong. 
I do not know what she would think of 
me if she knew how quick and fiery my 
temper is. She would never believe 
that I try to control it. 

Alfred writes that next month he will 
be married. I think I like better to 
have sisters married ; they are not so 
lost to us as brothers generally are. 
Sisters-in-law, so far as I know them, 
want their husbands all to themselves, 
so it seems like saying good-bye to Al- 
fred ; and I love him so well and am so 
proud of his fine looks and splendid 
mind. I scarcely know any woman 
handsome enough or accomplished 
enough or good enough to be his wife. 
Oh, how dreadful it is to have families 
broken up in this way ! But I suppose 


46 The Song of a Heart. 


we will each do our part towards break- 
ing ours. Hester’s turn comes next. 
I am glad it is not Tom’s or mine. 

Last August Hester and I went to 
the White Mountains. How grand 
they are ; but still the sea is best. 
The mountains make me lonely. I 
feel shut in and away from all the 
world. The sea is open from horizon 
to horizon, and never motionless like 
the mountains. On our way home we 
spent a day and night with Dr. and 
Mrs. Reynolds at Northampton, Massa- 
chusetts. It was such a delight to be 
his guest I felt almost afraid. 

This winter Hester and I attend a 
musical society, and we are singing 
the oratorios. Next to my friends I 
love music. It is better than books, 
better than pictures, better than any- 
thing except love. But that is more 


The Song of a Heart. 47 


than half music, and the best music is 
full of pain. Is love also? How do I 
know anything about it except that 
there are many counterfeits? 

I have been working in some of the 
hospital wards, writing letters for the 
soldiers, taking them jellies and other 
delicacies. One day there was a pris- 
oner in the ward, a rebel. His cot 
was apart from the rest. Poor fellow, 
he looked lonely, and I started to go 
to him, but then remembered Libby 
Prison, and could not do it ; at least he 
was comfortable as good food and care 
could make him. To be sure he was 
not to blame for the treatment of our 
prisoners, still I did not want to talk 
to him. The news from Libby Prison 
is horrible. I do not want to write it 
down, there is no need. It can never 
be forgotten — it is burned in. 


48 The Song of a Heart. 


John Thornton came home from the 
front in October. He had been wounded 
and it was more than six weeks before 
he recovered so that he could go back 
to his command. He has been pro- 
moted to the colonelcy, and we hear 
many stories of his fearless courage. 
I do admire bravery greatly. Probably 
it is because I am such a physical 
coward myself. 


Chicago, Christmas , 186 1 ^. 

This year Tom left Phillips’ Academy 
and entered college. We all went to 
the commencement, but our train was 
delayed, and we reached Andover only 
to see people coming away from the 
hall. I was so vexed and yet could 
not help laughing. It was ludicrous 


The Song of a Heart. 


49 


to be wending our way serenely to see 
something that was all over. Dear 
Tom, no matter how tall he is or how 
old he may be by and by, he will al- 
ways be my little bi’other, fair and 
generous at play, and so brave when 
he was hurt. The professors told 
mother he was one of the best scholars 
they ever had. This pleased us all 
greatly, for the academy stands at the 
head of the list. 

Just as we were leaving for home, a 
letter came to me in an unfamiliar 
hand. It proved to be from John 
Thornton. It was a beautiful letter, 
but there was only one answer to be 
given. I tried to have it gentle and 
gracious, but it made me very sad. 

Hester and I spent two days with the 
Reynolds on our way home, and I 
enjoyed every minute and second while 


50 The Song of a Heart. 


there. It is a charming place, and he 
entertains as no one else I ever knew. 
Whatever he does is fascinating. His 
private secretary is to be married soon. 
How I wish he would ask me to take 
her place. It would keep me away 
from home only during the summer, 
when we are always traveling some- 
where. Mother would not object, I 
think, but Hester would not like it at 
all. She was married the first of 
October, and it was a beautiful wed- 
ding. The cosy home rooms were 
bright with flowers, and she and Jim 
stood under a huge bell of feathery 
green with a rope of white roses, and 
just opposite them, her full length 
portrait was garlanded with moss buds 
in pink and white. What a handsome 
bride she made with her great dark 
eyes and the delicate flush on her 


The Song of a Heart. 51 


cheeks. Of course her dress was per- 
fect, Hester’s dresses always are. I 
hope we will all like Jim. Now only 
Tom and I are left, and I almost wish 
we two could live together always, 
without any wife or husband. Did 
ever a sister and brother live so I 
wonder, and would Tom be lonesome? 

John Thornton is home again from the 
front. He was mustered out in Sep- 
tember and we see him at the Mu- 
sicales. Sometimes he actually calls 
to see me. How true and good and 
gentle he is — oh dear. 


New York City, Christmas , 1865 . 
This is the happy year of peace. 
Cruel that the black shadow of assassin- 
ation should have fallen at such a time 


52 The Song of a Heart. 


and on such a life. One day the whole 
country blossoming with flags and re- 
sounding with booming cannon in honor 
of peace. The next, silent cities, mill- 
ions of tearful faces, somber, black- 
draped streets. Only one Lincoln for 
the world, and he murdered by a cow- 
ard who stole up behind him and put a 
bullet into the tired brain as he sat all 
unconscious of danger and seeking rest. 

Is it true in the spiritual realm as in 
the physical, that great light and deep- 
est shadow go together? This year it 
seems so for me. Following the spring 
darkened with the nation’s calamity a 
radiant summer burst into bloom. In 
my brightest dreams of pleasure I never 
expected to spend five whole months 
with Dr. and Mrs. Reynolds. But our 
home was broken up. Hester and Jim 
had gone abroad, mother and I were 


The Song of a Heart. 58 

here with Alfred. The invitation came 
from Mrs. Reynolds. She wanted me 
to help her entertain a house full of 
guests. Her health was not good, she 
wrote. In the fresh early morning of 
the 13th of June, I reached their charm- 
ing home. Dr. Reynolds had flung out 
the Stars and Stripes in honor of my 
arrival. 

Did ever such a year dawn as 1865? 
Books, music and pictures, a perfect 
country home, drives and strolls through 
the lovely New England scenery, fair 
summer days and a glorious October, 
with gorgeous pictures of flaming 
woods, softened, melting sky, and wo- 
ven through it all a vague pain of in- 
tense enjoyment. It stands out alone 
marked with a white stone. 

In November I came back to Alfred’s 
to be with mother. This will be our 


54 The Song of a Heart. 


home now, while Tom is at college, and 
Jim and Hester are away, perhaps for 
three years. 

Somewhere I have read of the power 
of a strong personality to reach far 
down into the human heart. He who 
wrote must have known how such touch 
sends deepest music throbbing through 
it, but the clumsy material medium of 
words is powerless to reveal its exultant 
harmony in the soul. Earth’s beauty 
makes music, but this is more and bet- 
ter than all the music of laughing wa- 
ters, and green hills and blue infinite 
skies. Wonderful that it should have 
come to me. What matter that it comes 
hand in hand with bewilderment and 
dread? If I can bear such happiness 
alone (and I must) , it will be easy 
to bear these. It lifts me up, little, 
unworthy, insignificant myself, but 


The Song of a Heart. 55 


crowned with the royalty that such 
love bestows. It fills the depths of my 
heart, a love that death cannot quench 
or stain. Steadily, through light and 
shadow, flows this divine symphony ; 
with great swelling waves of tender- 
ness, and deep resistless tides of loyalty 
and worship. Doubt never clouds it, 
the stars of trust and faith are always 
shining in its quiet depths, and as it 
flows on, bearing my life with it, my 
soul is filled with peace which sinks 
deeper than all the pain, for the music 
is forever, the pain only for the few 
years we misname life. Long ago I 
thought I knew what it was, but in 
the presence of this radiant reality, that 
is only a child’s dream. 


56 The Song of a Heart. 


New York City, Christmas , 1866 . 

Last year was all summer to me. 
Flowers bloomed and birds sung the 
long way through . This year there 
has been a touch of winter. Not the 
whiteness and silence and isolation of 
snow, but sudden chilly blasts from the 
southwest, where one looks for balmy 
breath, and gray days in July, when 
there should be rich warm sunshine. 

From May till October I was with 
Dr. and Mrs. Reynolds. They tell 
mother they claim me half the year — 
that they cannot do without me. Some- 
times it seems as if it was wrong to go 
again, but when the time comes I can- 
not say no. It is pleasant here, and I 
should be happy, but though I dearly 
love Alfred, and my own mother dar- 
ling is with us, I am restless and sad. 
I want rich full life, and it is all so far 


The Song of a Heart. 57 


from me. But what can give it? Not 
company and constant change, for we 
have too much of that here. Cities al- 
ways make me lonesome since Annie 
died. And I love the country, but can- 
not go into it alone. If I was only 
sure what I ought to do, could I do it? 
Sometimes I wish I knew some dear old- 
time couple who would take me into 
their quiet country home for a while. 
I cannot tell mother I am so ill at ease. 
It would worry her dear heart. So I 
must bear it quietly as well as I can. 


New York City, Christmas , 1867. 

Mother and I are here still with Al- 
fred, but he is so busy with law books 
we see little of him. We are haying 
plenty of music this winter, and Tom 


58 The Song of a Heart. 


will make us a visit before New Year’s 
Day. Next year he will be through 
college ; but then, perhaps, we will lose 
him altogether. Dear little Tom ! — al- 
ways dear little Tom, if he is six feet 
tall. I half wish sometimes we were 
children again, making mud houses 
and playing with the animals. It was 
more rational than some grown-up 
“amusements,” so called. If we tired 
of it one day, we were ready to begin 
it the next. This is more than we can 
say of our pleasures now. 

Part of last summer I spent with the 
Reynolds. The house was full of hon- 
ored guests ; but how black the shad- 
ows were ! I shiver when I think of it . 
If I could wipe away all the darkness 
and remember only the sunshine, per- 
haps the ache would go out of my 
heart. 


The Song of a Heart. 59 


In October I took riding lessons, and 
had glorious rides in Central Park, on 
a large black horse named 4 ‘Dot.” We 
made up parties and started early in 
the morning, returning home to a late 
breakfast. The park was bright in its 
autumn coloring, Dot was fleet and gen- 
tle, and I felt so safe and yet so free as 
he galloped over the perfect roads, his 
ears and neck shining like black satin, 
and his silky mane waving in the cool 
breeze. It was unalloyed delight, and 
I learned to love dearly the dumb, hu- 
man-eyed creature to whom I owed it. 
What an empty world this would be 
without these speechless animals, and 
how sad it will be never to see them in 
another life. It seems to me I shall 
never be reconciled to their absence, for 
it is impossible to believe that we can 
ever forget them. 


60 The Song of a Heart. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1868 . 

Jim and Hester have come home, and 
now we are back in our old places. 
Home ties have no duplicates outside. 
It is such a rest to be here with Tom 
once more. To-day is more like the 
old, bright Christmases long ago. 

John came this month on business, 
and brought little Annie, who is a min- 
iature of her mother. She slept with 
me, and it was exquisite pleasure to see 
her child-face on the pillow. I talked 
softly to her about her mother, and told 
her how dearly we all had loved her, 
and how precious she herself was to us 
as Annie’s own little girl. How I wish 
John would let her stay with us always. 
Could I love her any better if she were 
my very own? 

How fast my youth is going ! Per- 
haps it is all gone, and I do not quite 


The Song of a Heart. 61 


realize it. There are lines in my face. 
But are twenty-seven years enough to 
draw them? Oh, how short it all is, 
how black sometimes, but how deep 
and sweet notwithstanding ; for under- 
neath all quiet, all outward easy inter- 
est put on for other eyes, lies the resist- 
less power that controls my life. Never 
for an hour or moment when I am 
awake does it lose its hold on me. It 
has made of my heart a sacred altar. 
I do not need vestals to keep the fire 
burning ; for even if I were dead my 
soul would still be aglow — it is undy- 
ing, eternal. I can only bend my head 
in silence and worship. Is not this 
enough? Why should my heart ache? 
If my life shall prove a sad one, it need 
not be a useless one also. A physical 
coward I may be ; a moral one I will 
not. Something for somebody, no mat- 


62 The Song of a Heart. 


ter how small the service may be ; this 
will quiet the gnawing emptiness and 
keep me from being altogether worth- 
less in the world. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1869 . 

This year we have lost Annie over 
again. Just when the wood flowers 
were beginning to bloom, a telegram 
came from John saying : “ Little Annie 
has left us, after a short illness.” There 
has scarcely been a day since her birth 
when I have not carried her on my 
heart, dreading harm and evil for her 
so that sometimes I could not sleep at 
night. So, underneath all the pain of 
seeing her in the coffin, a deep peace 
came into my soul, for she is safe now, 
where nothing can ever touch her with 
defilement. Dear little twelve-year-old 


The Song of a Heart. 68 


Annie, just as old as the little maid 
Christ raised from the dead so long ago . 
When His voice calls you back to life, 
shall we see the same little girl who 
left us, as the Bible people did ? If I 
dared choose I would have it so ; but 
who would dare to choose. God knows 
best. 

And what of the summer? Oh, those 
sudden and terrible shadows, and storms 
in which my heart was tossed, and torn, 
and wrung till the bloom and freshness 
and brightness of my youth were almost 
gone. The pain has forced its way into 
my soul in spite of my desperate efforts 
to keep it out. God help me to be pa- 
tient till its work is done. Even this 
darkness, with Christ, is better than 
the light without Him, and there is no 
darkness so deep that the light of His 
presence does not shine through . 


64 The Song of a Heart. 


Five of us are at home together — 
mother, Hester and Jim, Tom and I. 
The rest is merciful after the uneasy, 
tossing years since we were separated. 
Tom is a host in himself for making 
home delightful. He blossoms out 
splendidly on all occasions, and he is 
lovely as an angel with mother and so 
good to me. Life will be worth living 
as long as he is in it. 


Chicago, Christmas , 1870. 

New Year’s Day of this year brought 
to me an old friend, John Thornton. 
He has been away and we did not know 
he was in town. It was a long time 
since I had seen him. Hester went 
down at once, but a strange hesitation 
held me back. I never before was as 
long walking across the hall and down 


The Song of a Heart. 65 


the stairs. Then suddenly, without 
giving myself a chance to debate the 
matter, I crossed the threshold of the 
room. He was gentle, and kind and 
courteous as ever. His coming bright- 
ened the gray, snowy day for us all. 
When he left he said he would like to 
write to me sometimes, if I did not 
mind, and so his cheery, kindly letters 
have found their way often and oftener 
into my hands. 

My usual invitation came from the 
Reynolds, but that chapter in my life is 
closed. Beautiful place, I have said 
good-bye to it forever, although undy- 
ing memories of happy hours will re- 
main in my heart. There must always 
be pain if our lives go deep enough. 

But a new year is at the door, and I 
hear wedding bells. I listen and won- 
der, and ask myself, For me ? Did 


66 The Song of a Heart. 


John Thornton really ask me to be his 
wife, and did I promise? It does not 
seem real that so noble a man, so gen- 
tle, so kind, a “knight without fear 
and without reproach,” can care for a 
woman so faded and tired as I. But 
when I tell him so, his brown eyes 
smile, and he softly answers: “I do 
not want the past ; give me the future.” 
Then I look thoughtfully back through 
the years. In my life have been dizzy 
heights of happiness where the sun- 
shine almost blinded me with its power 
and fullness ; and deep valleys of sor- 
row, where in the blackness and silence 
I groped my way, stumbling over 
graves. Now before me is a long reach 
of sunny, quiet country. No blinding 
glory, no dreadful darkness, but soft 
light, and softer shadow, and deepest 


The Song of a Heart. 67 


peace. It is the beginning of a long 
rest after a long journey. 

I feel a small, half-regretful affection 
for my own name. It has served me 
through years of happiness and in 
months of pain. It is like losing an old 
friend to give it up. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1871 . 

My first Christmas as a married 
woman. How odd it still seems to be 
called Mrs. Thornton, and never Madge 
by any one but Jack. 

We were married on the second of 
March, but in February Jack had to go 
to London, where his brother is in 
business. There were ten dreadful 
days for all who had friends on that 
steamer ; days when the winds that 


68 The Song of a Heart. 


moaned around tlie house seemed only 
an echo from our own hearts, for all 
thought the vessel had gone to the 
bottom — and nights when I could not 
sleep for seeing Jack’s dead face be- 
neath the waves. But at last came 
news of his safety. Then followed his 
letters, that were like draughts of fresh 
air after suffocating pressure ; then his 
living presence, the kind brown eyes, 
the gentle voice, the warm strong hand. 

Our wedding night was a snowy one. 
It all seemed like a dream to me ex- 
cept Jack’s face, as he made the re- 
sponses. That was tangible and real 
and kept me steady while I said good- 
bye to mother and Hester and Tom. 
We went to the mountains, and how 
beautiful they were, and restful after 
the bustle of preparation, and the 4 ‘try- 
ing on” of dresses. The snow had 


The Song of a Heart. 69 


melted, and all the landscape was in 
soft, misty gray, the exquisite crayons 
of the bare trees standing out against 
the pale wintry sky. But best of all, 
and never to be forgotten, was the trip 
to my well-loved seashore when a 
storm had raised the waves very high, 
and they swept in toward the land 
foaming white, “curved like the necks 
of a legion of horses,” till they broke on 
the shore with a sound like thunder, 
deep and vast and awful. 

In October came the dreadful Chicago 
fire. The newspapers were crowded 
with vivid descriptions of the awful 
hours while that reign of flame went 
on. But to us who once called the 
city home, and whose friends were 
among those fugitives driven relent- 
lessly along the crowded streets under 
showers of sparks and flying embers, 


70 The Song of a Heart. 


there seemed no words adequate. 
Homeless, leaving behind every earthly 
possession, trying only through the 
roar and glare and smoke to save their 
lives, it seems strange that they kept 
their reason. One of my own school 
friends hurrying with her husband out of 
their pretty home passed the cage where 
her pet canary was singing. She could 
not carry anything. They needed free 
hands to save themselves. There was 
not a moment to spare, but she laid the 
little creature softly inside her dress, 
buttoning the folds loosely across her 
throat, and through the storm of fire 
and exposure the bird passed safely, 
not one tiny yellow feather rumpled. 
God was good to me and mine and the 
flames went down before our old home 
was reached. 

There is one bright side to this great 


The Song of a Heart. 


71 


calamity — the outpouring of human 
sympathy and help all oyer the land. 
It is worth the price to Chicago and to 
all the country. 

Since coming home the time has 
passed happily along. If there is a 
burden of life it lies lightly on my 
shoulders, held up by his hand, which, 
only human though it is, is always 
tender and never seems tired. 

I thank God with all my heart, and 
pray Him to lead us both through the 
coming year, so that whether happi- 
ness remains or sorrow takes its place 
we may never be out of reach of His 
hand. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1872. 
Another happy year gone over my 
head and not a shadow has yet fallen in 


72 The Song of a Heart. 


my married life. The months have 
slipped peacefully along, carrying a 
record of sunny quiet days. Once 
quiet happiness seemed worth nothing. 
I wonder now whether it is not best 
and deepest of all. 

In January, Jack sent me home for 
a visit. It was so pleasant to walk 
through the home rooms and see the 
home faces. Mother, peaceful and 
lovely as she has always been since I 
can remember. Hester, handsome and 
well dressed, and Tom my “little 
brother” in spite of his heavy mus- 
tache. I always see back of him, like 
a shadow, the little fellow I loved in 
a blue gingham apron. Jim is nice, 
but he cannot compare with Alfred and 
Tom. I found that even home was 
not altogether home without Jack, so 
when my visit was over and I turned 


The Song of a Heart. 


78 


my face southward, though it was 
night, snowy and dreary, I was glad, 
for the journey would take me to him. 

On the 23d of May we went up to 
Congress to see the seats filled for the 
first time since 1861. Perhaps it is 
all right, but I cannot like to see those 
who gave their influence and service 
to destroy this Union coming to the 
front as law makers for the country. 
My cheek burned as they took the 
4 ‘modified oath.” There was never 
but one oath before, but they call it 
the ‘-ironclad” now, for they can no 
longer swear that they have never 
borne arms against the country. It 
was to me the confession of treason, 
and I felt the humiliation of it, for 
they are my own countrymen. 

In the summer we went to the sea, 
but there were so many people about 


74 The Song of a Heart. 


that I could not see much of Jack. 
When we came home in October the 
woods were aflame with gorgeous colors, 
and throughout the bright day there 
was a succession of beautiful pictures. 
The days have all been happy, and 
here is Christmas again. Two restful 
years. I wonder if I am growing to 
be what one ought under such train- 
ing. It is such uphill work to be 
patient and good. 


Washington, D C., Christmas , 1873. 

Blessed Christmas with its fragrant 
memories and hallowed associations. 
It has come to me, finding all the 
happiness and blessing of last year 
still mine, life and health and friends, 
and my dearest human friend of all. 


The Song of a Heart. 75 


This year we have rooms down town 
and our meals at the hotel. If large 
chandeliers and marble floors and 
plenty of waiters were all that is 
necessary to make good breakfasts and 
dinners, we would have been well off, 
but I was thankful enough when August 
came and we left the city for our summer 
vacation. We went to Watkins Glen, 
then down the St. Lawrence to Mont- 
real and Quebec, then to the White 
Mountains, and last of all, to the 
beautiful sea. What a vision of beauty 

it was ±he majestic river, the furious 

rapids, the quaint cities, the purple 
mountains, the awful silence of Mt. 
Washington, the pomp and glory of 
the sunrise, and the steep descent as 
we followed the singing rivers down 
to the sea, with its haunting voice and 
infinite face. 


76 The Song of a Heart. 


We have had a great musician this 
year — Rubinstein — the greatest I ever 
heard. It was not merely that he 
played music never attempted here 
before, but genius was interpreting, 
and even Jack, who cannot sing a true 
note, and cares chiefly for a fife and 
drum, confessed to me that for the first 
time in his life such music gave him 
a queer little crinkle in his spine. 
How he played ! The piano which 
has always seemed so cold beside the 
orchestra palpitated under white heat 
of passion and inspiration. We shall 
not hear his like again. Nature does 
not furnish more than one such in a 
lifetime. 

Another year added to the long 
shining train that marks God’s won- 
derful goodness to me — if only I were 
better and lovelier in every way. Per- 


The Song of a Heart. 77 


haps it will be a good plan to try in 
special directions. Then my temper 
would be the first subject. Why can- 
not I keep cool as Jack does? 

If I do not live till another Christmas, 
I will give this journal to Jack, so he 
will know how happy he has made me. 
My life is full of bloom and sweetness, 
and I owe it all to him. The path has 
been a sunny, lovely, happy one all the 
way. The storms and heartaches and 
heart sinkings before our marriage have 
passed like a dream in the night. Dear 
old Jack. If there were many men 
like him the millennium would dawn. 
Even if death should step in between 
us soon I am sure I shall still love him, 
certainly not less in that higher life 
than now, in this lower one. And no 
matter how long we might be separated, 


78 The Song of a Heart. 


his heart will “keep my memory 
green.” 

December is waving us farewell. In 
sunlight and starlight its last hours are 
passing on. In my pleasant home with 
those I love, and with visions of the 
glorious future, of which this happy 
time is only a forerunner, I cannot 
keep down the jubilate of my beating 
heart. Farewell old year. Welcome 
and welcome again 1874. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 187 
It has come again, and I am here to 
welcome it. Health and happiness 
even fuller than last year are mine. 
How delightful it is to live. Just the 
opening of spring was enough to make 
all the year beautiful. The warm days 


The Song of a Heart. 79 


came so suddenly, and the lovely green 
of the young leaves followed so quickly 
in their footsteps that it was as if a fairy 
wand had done the work. All the city 
was like a park in its delicate greenery, 
and summer came as a queen following 
her maid of honor. 

In August, Jack and I went to St. 
John’s by sea. The ocean view was 
grand, and so was the shore of bold, 
high rocks, which even distance, with its 
blue light and softened angles, could 
not belittle or smooth down. The city I 
did not like. It is old without being 
picturesque, and horribly dirty, and 
altogether English. 

We came home in September, and 
have had Indian summer, more rich 
and mellow than for many years. In 
October we paid mother a visit, and had 
a good old-fashioned time. Alfred and 


80 The Song of a Heart. 


his wife were there, and Hester and 
Jim. They played duets and Tom sung, 
and mother and I were perfectly happy. 

Jack came home first, and I followed 
in two weeks. Dear soul, what a royal 
welcome he gave me. He had filled the 
vases with flowers, and dressed the 
rooms with branches of evergreen and 
brilliant leaves. The glass dish on the 
side-table was heaped with fruits. How 
beautiful it all was, the beauty made 
real by the love underlying it. The 
years are so filled with comfort and 
happiness I sometimes tremble. Others 
do not have so much. I hope I shall 
not be stupid and fail to learn the lesson 
God is teaching me in such a tender 
way. My trust in Him ought to be ab- 
solute when the shadows, which must 
come by and by, shall begin to fall. 


The Song of a Heart. 81 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1875. 

This year lies in shadow. Writing 
to-night in our home, Jack’s and mine, 
with its pretty, restful rooms, the first 
we have ever had, I look back through 
the glowing autumn and fair summer, 
that brought their gift to us of the 
blessed woods and the grand old sea, 
to the early spring when the darkness 
fell. There came a morning when I 
woke with a light heart, glad for the 
new sight of the sun. Before noon we 
were rushing away on the northbound 
train, hoping and praying that mother 
would live till we could reach her. God 
has been good, and the shadow that fell 
has not hidden His merciful hand. She 
was able to see us and speak to us, and, 
although she needed constant watching, 
she suffered little pain. But the end 
came swiftly. I could see the beginning 


82 The Song of a Heart. 


of it in her gray, tired face. She was 
so anxious to go. On the last afternoon 
of her life, as I sat by her bed, the note 
of a robin came through the open win- 
dow. ‘ 4 How beautiful, ’ ’ she said, with 
a faint little smile. Soon after she 
grew restless, and asked for a quieting 
powder. I hesitated, lest it should 
steep the last hours of her life in forget- 
fulness. But as the restlessness in- 
creased, and her lips shook with the cold 
of the icy touch at her heart, I held it 
to her lips and asked if she would take 
her medicine then. “Til try,” she 
said, and these were the last words we 
heard. Had she known how near death 
was, perhaps she would not have taken it, 
but the doctor’s directions were explicit. 
When I die I do not want to take that 
solemn journey asleep. The last of this 
dear earth, the very first of the meas- 


The Song of a Heart. 88 

tireless life to come, I want in conscious- 
ness. 

Waiting for any life to go out, no 
matter how small a hold it has on us, is 
hard, and this was my mother, and she 
was feeble and old. Still the only 
shadows about her bed were thrown 
from our own hearts. She was all in 
radiance. While we saw the long, beau- 
tiful, unselfish life lying behind her, 
she had her face turned full toward 
Christ, and saw only Him. “And so 
she entered the gate of the City.” All 
through the night I sat near her, 
watched the look of peace deepening on 
her face, felt the repose that had settled 
over the still figure with its folded 
hands. The bed where she tossed rest- 
lessly the last hour was as she left it, 
the print of her head in the pillow. 
How empty it looked. The sight of the 


84 The Song of a Heart. 

folded handkerchief that had lain on 
her head when it ached, and the useless 
medicine, and the straw through which 
she had taken her last mouthful of 
food, sent a sharp pang through my 
heart. Still, I would not have called 
her back, she was so glad to go. 

What a year this has been for her. If 
we could know only a little of it, what 
a vision of glory it would be when even 
her death-bed was a “whispering gallery 
between earth and heaven.” In the 
Savior’s ineffable presence, beholding 
His glory face to face, and therefore 
hearing His softest whisper, receiving 
His faintest smile, may we abide with 
her, when death shall conduct us 
thither. 

Am I wrong to call this a shadowed 
year? The shadow is so full of peace I 
almost think so. For this, then, with 


The Song of a Heart. 85 


my other blessings of health, and home 
and deathless love, I thank God with 
reverent heart, and for the veiled year 
coming, trust Him fearlessly, and with 
deeper love than ever before. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1876. 

Into the darkness and mystery of this 
last year we have walked, and walked 
safely, and are here at its close to write 
its story ; a tender, happy story of love 
and blessing. Health, home, friends, 
all my own. We have enjoyed our 
dainty home every day of the three 
hundred and sixty-six, so far. I ought 
to be an angel, but my temper is too 
quick. I used to think that people as 
old as I am now never had to strug- 
gle with any such thing, but age does 


86 The Song of a Heart. 


not seem to make any difference with 
me. I have now passed my thirty-fifth 
birthday ; am on the last half of my 
life, or near it, and remember that all 
the older people tell us the last half is 
not nearly so long as the first. When 
the end comes, it will not be pleasant 
to look back along the way, and find I 
have done nothing to make the world 
better or happier. But what ought I 
to do? Home duties surely come first. 
Perhaps if I planned rightly, they 
might take less time ; mother could tell 
me if she was here. Ho^v I want to see 
her, and what a shock it is still, each 
time I remember that she will never 
come, that I shall never see her again 
in this world. What would I do now 
without Jack? How did I ever get 
along without him? And yet there 


The Song of a Heart. 87 


was a time, long ago it seems, when I 
did not care for him. 

Jim and Hester and Tom have good 
times together, but I hope now that 
Tom will marry, if only there is any 
girl half good enough for him. 

This year we went first to the sea, 
and afterwards to the mountains. Hes- 
ter and Jim were with us. We had de- 
lightful drives and walks, and gathered 
quantities of handsome ferns for Christ- 
mas decorations. On the way home 
the others waited over a day or two at 
Philadelphia to see the Centennial. I 
came directly through, dreading that 
great crowd. 

In November, Jack’s brother, with 
his wife and boy, came back from Eng- 
land. He will carry on the business 
here awhile. I never met them until 
now ; but if he proves to be anything 


88 The Song of a Heart. 


like Jack, I shall be sure to like him. 
Haying his wife here makes me a little 
nervous. And then that boy, what 
shall I do with him ? They will stay 
with us for a time at least. Our de- 
lightful home life cannot be the same 
while they are here ; but if I only keep 
well and strong, everything must come 
out right. Jack’s brother is quiet, but 
he seems kind, and he looks a little 
like Jack. His wife is a dashing woman, 
and always on dress parade, so I do not 
expect much en j oyment with her . And , 
oh ! the boy. Why cannot people train 
their children so they will not annoy all 
human beings except themselves? At 
least, they ought to behave at the table, 
and go to bed at night without scream- 
ing so that one’s neighbors think they 
are being murdered. It is all very well 
to have them full of life and frolic, but 


The Song of a Heart. 89 


they might be well bred, and unselfish 
too, if they were only trained as they 
should be. No wonder, when they are 
left to nurses from the time they begin 
to receive impressions that they are 
veritable barbarians. If I had any of 
my own, I would always go with the 
nurse, and let the house and sewing 
wait till the children were safe in bed. 

Jack and I have a lovely Christmas 
to-day. The rooms are fragrant with 
ferns and gay with maple leaves. We 
sent presents to all the home people, 
and had our own, enjoying them cozily 
together. Hugh and his wife, and little 
Hugh, went off for the day on a pleas- 
ure trip. After they had gone, I picked 
up the playthings, straightened the tum- 
bled sofa cushions and sat down in the 
library with Jack. How I did enjoy it, 
but perhaps I am dreadfully selfish. 


90 The Song of a Heart. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1877 . 

God has given me another year. It 
has brought no deep grief, taken no 
dear friend. Sunny and peaceful the 
path stretches backward through the 
months gone forever. Home, and 
health, and love ; how can I thank 
Him enough? I do feel grateful down 
deep in my heart, and want to be lovely 
and good, but I get so provoked with 
people and things. Why will people 
say nice things they cannot possibly 
mean? Why do they follow the lead 
of their set, no matter how foolish or 
even wicked? Why will women let 
their ministers, their doctors, or even 
their husbands do their thinking for 
them? And it does seem sometimes 
as if dead material was in league 
against quick-tempered people. “To- 
tal depravity of inanimate matter” be- 


The Song of a Heart. 


91 


comes once in awhile a possible propo- 
sition, at least for a few minutes. 
“The world, the flesh and the devil;’’ 
these are the three we are warned 
against. It cannot be the world I 
mpst struggle with, for the world that 

l/VL*- 

is,, its pomp, and glitter, and show, 
haw no hold on me. No, it must be 
the flesh and the devil. But these two 
are more than enough. I am sorry 
indeed for those who have to fight all 
three. 

We stayed at home this year except 
for one month, for we could not leave 
until the Thorntons took their va- 
cation. Our trip was more than ever 
delightful, for our large family, with 
company part of the time, made my 
days busy, and often wearisome. Jack 
was good as gold all the time, doing 
everything he could to lighten the 


92 The Song of a Heart. 


burdens. I am very happy with him, 
and life is very dear. 

Next April, the Thorntons are going 
back to England to live. I like them, 
but cannot help being glad that Jack 
and I are to be alone again. Mother 
used to say there was “no house built 
large enough for two families.” And 
I think it must be always true, at 
least if I am in one of them. Perhaps 
it is my red hair. 

Oh ! I hope God will be good to us 
through this new year coming now so 
swiftly, keeping us from sorrow, and, 
most of all, from grieving Him. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1878 . 
Blessed day, the dearest, the best in 
the year, no matter how many good 


The Song of a Heart. 98 


ones there may be. They have not all 
been good this time. First, our church 
home has been broken up, and it was 
worth much to me, since our own home 
has been so changed. Now our Sun- 
days are empty in comparison with 
those we used to have, and the week 
days are crowded and confused, for the 
Thorntons did not go back to England. 
Instead, they stayed with us till June, 
when they went north for the summer. 

Tom was married in June. I could 
not go to his wedding, and because it 
was Tom, this gave me a heartache. 
He and Kitty spent part of their vaca- 
tion with us. The weather was cool 
and bright, and for once, sight-seeing 
day after day did not tire me out. Tom 
seems very happy, and I am so glad he 
is no longer alone. 

Hester and Jim joined us in Septem- 


94 The Song of a Heart. 


ber, which we spent among the Berk- 
shire Hills. One day, we went to the 
old house where Jack was born. I 
think I must have felt as “Rip” did 
after his twenty years sleep ; that things 
were strange which ought to be fa- 
miliar, for I knew Jack when I was a 
little girl and he was only seventeen 
years old. 

Since coming home, I have been 
busy getting ready for company, and 
for Christmas gayeties. We expect to 
begin the new year with a house full 
of guests. The Thorntons will be here, 
Jim and Hester are coming, and some- 
time during the winter other friends for 
a short time. It is all pleasant for 
awhile, but all the year is another mat- 
ter. I do want to see more of Jack. 
Am I growing more selfish, instead of 
less so? God has been good to me. I 


The Song of a Heart. 


95 


ought to grow perceptibly into all that 
is unselfish and noble. 

Oh ! my Father, teach me to trust Thee 
perfectly. Teach me not only to go 
fearlessly into this unknown year com- 
ing so fast, and then whirling us on so 
swiftly, but even into the death shadow, 
and into it alone, and into it this very 
year, if it is Thy will. Dear earth, 
dear spring so fragrant and fresh, dear 
summer, glowing and golden, dear au- 
tumn, blood-red with life’s love and 
pain, farewell to you all, if I am gone 
before you come again. Dearly as I 
love you, I can write good-bye quietly, 
sitting here to-night with December 
snows on the grass, and December 
winds moaning around my home. But 
not to my friends, the few I hold deep 
in my heart, not to Jack, who makes 
life what it is to me, not to these can 


96 The Song of a Heart. 


I say good-bye. Why need I ever say 
it? Can such love as I give them be 
less than deathless? Can it win in 
return less than deathless love? 

“ Wilt thou remember me when I am gone, 
Further each year from thy vision withdrawn, 
Thou in the sunset, and I in the dawn? 

“ Wilt thou remember me when thou shalt see 
Daily and nightly encompassing thee 
Hundreds of others, but nothing of me?” 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1879 . 
This year has been rather hard for 
me, and an expensive one for Jack. 
The Thorntons have been here all the 
time, and guests have been coming and 
going constantly. Under some circum- 
stances, it would be pleasant enough. 
But the summer heat was intense, and 


The Song of a Heart. 97 


we stayed at home for the first time 
since our marriage ; we really could 
not afford to take a trip. The cook 
gave out, and went home for a rest, so 
the chambermaid and I shared the 
work of getting meals, washing dishes, 
sweeping and dusting, during all of 
August. Then, for some reason, I 
have been feeling tired for a long time, 
and have been blue and discouraged. 
I would be glad to live in one room 
alone with Jack, rather than in a whole 
house with so much care and two fam- 
ilies. 

So there have been many sad days 
this year. Our home is changed and 
most of our home habits. No more 
nice chats with Jack at the table — that 
irrepressible boy does all the talking. 
No more pushing my plate close to his 
so I can pat his knee and say, “Dear 


98 The Song of a Heart. 

old Jack.” I cannot follow liim to the 
front door, and tell him to stand up 
straight, and turn his toes out, and let 
his mustache alone, and keep his coat- 
collar brushed, with a kiss following 
each injunction. Not that Jack needs 
such advice, but some men set him a bad 
example, and I do not want him to fall 
into their ways. It was funny too, to 
see him stand, waiting for me to say it 
all, every morning. But there are too 
many people about now, and I just say 
good-bye in a proper, miserable way. 
Doubtless it is dreadfully selfish, but I 
do not like company for such a long 
time . 

Still, there has been brightness 
through it all. God has not taken my 
best away. Home is spoiled, but health 
and Jack are still mine. He never fails 
me in sympathy and help, and this has 


The Song of a Heart. 99 


held me steady, and kept me patient, so 
far as I have been so. Had he been 
different, it would either have driven 
me crazy, or away from the house. I 
love him, dearly love him, and so long 
as we have each other, I ought to be 
able to bear anything. 

And Christmas has come, and I have 
dreaded to write the story of the year 
(which still could not be left out) , not 
knowing that in these closing days God 
would send a blessing so sweet, a joy 
so deep that the old year with all its 
shadows will stand wrapped in a radi- 
ance pure and enduring as eternity it- 
self. What a day for mother in heaven, 
for she must know that dear Tom, 
who for so long has been unready to 
acknowledge his faith in our Lord, has 
now learned that faith and accepted it 
as the dominating power of his life. 


100 The Song of a Heart. 


The priceless fruitage of her long years 
of prayer has come at last. 

Why is God so kind to me? Never 
yet has He let a year go by without 
putting into it something beautiful or 
good. I have not been always patient 
and restful these last months, and it 
cuts me to the heart to remember that 
the old year, holding out to me in its 
trembling hand this great happiness, 
bears away beyond recovery the bitter 
impatient days that would have been 
peaceful even in their pain, if I had 
only trusted fully the God who is always 
loving and blessing me. Forgive me, 
old year, for I am sorry in the core of 
my heart, and your name is written in 
my memory with letters of living light. 


The Song of a Heart. 101 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1880. 

This year, on the 1st of March, we 
moved into our new home. It was a 
chance in a thousand, the cash payment 
was not large, and Jack decided he 
would buy it. But I had been running 
down under the care that always comes 
with a large family and more servants, 
till at last our physician said I must 
have rest. In May the Thorntons sailed 
for England, and in June Jack and I 
took a long trip together. We went to 
the far north, where the twilight lasts 
for hours, and the stars look large 
through the clear air. We saw the 
great wheat farms, ploughed into rich, 
chocolate colored furrows ; further 
north still till we reached Winnipeg, 
saw the Red river, and the fur traders, 
and the half-breeds. The hotel there 
was horrible ; with lamps that smoked, 


102 The Song of a Heart. 


and glaring carpets. It was evidently 
heated with air-tight stoves, for chim- 
ney holes in the partitions brought the 
rooms into such close proximity that 
we could hear bits of dialogue not meant 
for outsiders, all the way up and down 
the halls ; most of it very uncompli- 
mentary to the house. The table was 
simply impossible. As soon as we ar- 
rived, Jack found out when the first 
train started back. We were glad 
enough to come home to the “States,” 
and prouder than ever of being Amer- 
icans. 

The rest of the summer was cool, so 
we stayed in the city, and such a good 
time we did have. Sitting alone at 
our little table, I could talk to Jack 
without interfering with anyone. If I 
jumped up a dozen times to go over to 
him, and pinch his ear, or pat his hand, 


The Song of a Heart. 103 


it was all right. It was great pleasure 
and no worry to keep house, for I felt 
well, and the shining of the sun and 
the singing of birds were in my heart. 
For nearly four years we have had 
some one with us, and it has sepa- 
rated me from Jack, so I cannot think 
of having anyone come to stay without 
a heavy heart. Jack has so little time 
to give me that when he comes home, 
I want to sit close to him, and have 
him all to myself, instead of taking a 
chair across the room, and talking about 
the weather, or politics, or social mat- 
ters, all of which make me utterly 
wretched when Jack is about. So, if I 
live, I hope we will never have anyone 
else to stay with us steadily through 
the year? If I live? I have thought 
a great deal this year about dying — and 
of the mysterious change that death 


104 The Song of a Heart. 


brings ; of friends gone on before, 
father, mother, Annie, little Annie ; 
more than all, of that dearest One, and 
the longing to see Him, to hear Him 
speak, to feel perhaps His hand on my 
head, has sprung up so strong in my 
heart, that death seems blessed, since 
it takes us to Him. Still, life is sweet, 
and earth is beautiful, and home and 
husband are very dear. I thank God 
for all these, and day by day, as we go 
deeper down into this stormy, snowy 
winter of eighty and eighty-one, I am 
glad in the thought of all that life has 
been to me. If death should come be- 
fore another summer, I have had more 
than enough to outweigh anj^ pain, or 
sorrow, or disappointment. 

In my own home, with my hand in 
that of my husband, I say good-bye to 
the old year with some regrets, some 


The Song of a Heart. 105 


sad thoughts, but without fear for the 
future, and with peace in my heart. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1881. 

Filled with sorrow, and tears, and 
despair as this year has been, the 
blessed Christmas has dawned upon it. 
But even Christmas happiness cannot 
make us forget the brave, gentle soul 
we have all learned to love so well. 
The shadow of his grave falls across 
even these last glowing days of the 
year and down over my own heart. 
The year is his, for above all its 
troubled history of crime and suffer- 
ing shines the pure steady light from 
his sick chamber. 

“ No other year the world can claim, 

Has twined such laurels round a name ; 

Such tributes raised, such ties has riven.” 


106 The Song of a Heart. 


Whether Garfield was great as a 
statesman, whatever the future may- 
take away from his fame, the record 
of those last three months of his life 
is safe. If he failed in anything be- 
fore, he failed in nothing there. If 
he has not always been brave, and 
gentle, and true, he was all these 
after that dreadful second of July. 

How can I write anything of myself 
this year? There have been sunny 
days and cloudy ones for me, but as I 
look back, everything fades away ex- 
cept that gay, brilliant inauguration 
day, when he rode under thousands 
of flags, the air filled with the cheers 
of the immense crowd, and then — that 
mournful journey from the capitol to 
the station through the crape-veiled 
streets on his way to the grave. 

Old year of 1881, as I say good-bye 


The Song of a Heart. 107 


to you my heart remembers gratefully 
what it carries into the coming year — 
health, and home, and my dear love. 
And I speak my farewells softly and 
kindly, for you have been better to me 
than to others. Some are sitting in 
lonely places, wrapped in the darkness 
brought by death, shivering in the 
voiceless quiet. Even the memory of 
it, after all these years, makes my heart 
ache. So I can tell a little of what 
those are enduring on whom it has 
freshly fallen. No wonder Christ wept 
at the grave of Lazarus, if, standing 
by those stricken and loving sisters, 
His eyes looked down the long ages 
through which His human brothers 
and sisters must keep up the unending 
procession of mourners. This alone is 
enough to make our earth a sad place, 
and yet death is not the worst. 


108 The Song of a Heart. 


Oh God, keep us close to Thee 
through this new year coming. Its 
face is veiled and dark as it greets us. 
We are helpless, but we trust in Thee. 
Keep us to the end whatever that end 
may be. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1882 . 

Poor old year ! It is almost gone, 
and how tired I have been all the way. 
First, Hester was ill, and anxiety about 
her kept me sad and unsettled through 
the winter and early spring. For a 
while I was afraid she would die. I 
cannot think how Jim would live with- 
out her. He is so proud of her beauty 
and accomplishments, and enjoys his 
home thoroughly. Mother used to fear 
she would never settle down enough to 
make any man happy. She had such 


The Song of a Heart. 109 


crowds of friends, enjoyed gay society 
so much, and had so many lovers. No 
one but Jack ever wanted to marry me. 
Yes, my tall friend, long ago, but we 
were both so young, I verily believe 
neither of us knew what we were 
about. 

The first part of May was spoiled by 
an attack of nervous fever, from which 
I had scarcely recovered when news 
came that Jack’s brother and his wife 
had been lost at sea. The steamer 
went down and only a few were saved. 
Little Hugh was among these, and 
was in charge of strangers who were 
bringing him home to America. It 
was hard for Jack, but he bore it like 
a hero, as he is. When the steamer 
was due, he was at the pier to meet 
Hugh and to see if he could do any- 
thing for those who had cared for the 


110 The Song of a Heart. 


child. He brought the little fellow 
home to me. On his own account, 
and for Jack’s sake, I welcomed him 
warmly, but the responsibility weighed 
heavily on me. What could I do with 
him, eleven years old, untrained, a 
noisy, wil ful boy, and no special love 
between us? The outlook was not a 
peaceful one. 

Through the spring and summer 
while attending to house-cleaning and 
putting up fruit, I tried day after day 
to teach Hugh to hang up his hat when 
he came in, wash his face and hands, 
hang up his towel, empty the wash- 
bowl, and brush his hair. Then at 
night I told him stories about heroes 
who were brave and truthful and kind. 
We read together about the country 
and the Flag, and of those who loved 
America next to God, and were always 


The Song of a Heart. Ill 


ready to serve it and die for it if neces- 
sary. Sometimes it all seemed of no 
use ; it was like pouring water into a 
sieve. But after a while he began to 
love me, and then slowly, and with 
many a slip but still progressing, I 
found that we had made a beginning. 

The first of September we went to 
the sea. I was thoroughly tired, but 
we rested there. Hugh learned to 
swim and row, and said he was going 
to be a sailor when he grew up ; an 
American sailor, I told him, under the 
Stars and Stripes. 

When we came home in October, I 
felt as strong and well as ever, but it 
was a busy month, with company be- 
sides, and in November, I really and 
for the first time in my life, broke com- 
pletely down ; have kept my room, much 
of the time, my bed ever since. It has 


112 The Song of a Heart. 


troubled me greatly, for if health is 
gone, it will make me almost worthless 
in my home, and now with Hugh I am 
more than ever in need of strength. 
Jack is hopeful and thinks I will be 
strong by and by, but when he is away, 
all sorts of dismal imaginations crowd 
my head, for I am so weak, and it is 
such a strange experience for me . But 
I am glad for life, even when it comes 
hand in hand with sickness. Always 
it has been worth its price and more, 
with all the pain and sorrow it can 
bring. For the first time in my life, I 
have been half glad when a year was 
gone. Perhaps it is ungracious to feel 
so, for it has not taken my life away. 
I have lost no near friend, and dear 
old Jack is left to me still. 

Poor old year. With all its weari- 
ness and sad hours it has been better 


The Song of a Heart. 113 


to me than to many who enjoy health 
and happiness as much as I do. So 
after all I say good-bye thoughtfully 
and with regret. Will the new one 
make me stronger, give back my health, 
or is death waiting and shall I never 
see another blessed Christmas time? 
Never mind, the life of the soul is on 
an ascending plane, with broader, 
deeper, happiness before us than we 
leave behind. If we believed it in our 
hearts as well as our heads, what a 
different matter it would make of every 
day life, and of sorrow, and of death. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1883 . 

“ Of all the joy days under the sun, 

Of all the holidays, there *s but one 

That touches all hearts and reaches each home, 

The Christmas day when our Lord was born.” 


114 The Song of a Heart. 


“So hallowed and so gracious,” 
More so every year to me. It is the 
brightest, most beautiful thing in 
winter, and worth all the gray, dull 
skies and dead fields, and dreary snow. 
It vrould be even better to bear these 
all the year than to lose Christmas out 
of it. And I am wonderfully happy. 
Not strong as I used to be and always 
well ; but better than last year : able 
to walk about a little and feel the sweet- 
ness of life. 

January was a holiday month, for 
Tom and Kitty came to make us a 
visit. Such lovely evenings we had all 
together in the cosy library. Jack is a 
great tease, and torments Hugh so that 
I have to interfere sometimes. Tom 
never teases, and he was gentle and 
patient with the child, teaching him all 
sorts of funny or interesting tricks, and 


The Song of a Heart. 115 


playing games with him till it was 
time for him to go to bed. Hugh is 
quite good about this now, marching 
off like a little Trojan and never for- 
getting my good-night kiss. I have 
grown very fond of him. We would 
miss him greatly were he to leave us. 

We had a beautiful summer among 
the White Mountains and by the sea. 
Jack taught Hugh to ride, and they had 
many a fine gallop through the woody 
roads. I sat among the rocks, watch- 
ing the sails and the sea gulls, and 
listening to the endless song of the 
breakers. How many things it tells to 
me. All the sweetness of the years 
past comes back again ; the vanished 
faces, the familiar voices, the home an- 
niversaries, all the happiness of the 
present with Jack and Hugh : all the 
glory of the future when every sadness 


116 The Song of a Heart. 


shall be forgotten because every loss 
shall be made good, and full satisfy- 
ing life be our unending heritage. No 
wonder I love it so well and always 
leave it so reluctantly. 

We all came home stout and brown 
and well. The weeks have been busy 
ones preparing for Thanksgiving and 
Christmas, and Hugh’s birthday frolic 
which came late in December. The 
little people filled the rooms and made 
a pretty picture, the girls in their 
dainty white dresses and slippered feet, 
and the boys in their trim suits and 
shining hair. 

God has been good to me, but then 
He always is. I cannot be afraid of 
the unknown year coming, for we are 
in His hands where it is good to be, 
and even if death comes, my heart is 
anchored far beneath the foaming 


The Song of a Heart. 117 


breakers of life, in its deep and quiet 
waters. I have been slow at the lesson 
of patience, but at last it does seem 
that I am learning. 

How swiftly the years fly. Some- 
times, when tired, I begin to feel old. 
Then a pang shoots through my heart, 
life has been so sweet. But I remem- 
ber that immortal strength and fresh- 
ness await us just a little beyond. 
What bliss that life must be, when this 
one is so sweet through all its pain. 
And our time of waiting may be short. 
Ah, who can guess what lies hidden in 
these next twelve months ! Blindfolded 
and in the dark, yet fearless and at 
peace. So we step forward into this 
new year, which may be our last. 

Good-bye, old year. You have 
brought some cloudy days ; but to- 
night, as I turn for a last look out of 


118 The Song of a Heart. 


doors before laying down my pen, the 
sunset glow in the west is not warmer 
than the light in my heart, and inside 
as well as out the very shadows are 
rosy. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1881 ^. 

The good day has come to us once 
more. In the midst of ice and snow 
the markets have blossomed out into 
fragrant green. Going after holly for 
our vases, I turned a corner and came 
suddenly upon a long avenue of cedar 
which had been made by the piled-up 
Christmas trees brought in to sell. The 
change from the white, icy street to this 
green beauty and fragrance was an in- 
stant reminder of Him whose day it 
was, for He brought beauty and life to 
a world that was cold and dead until 


The Song of a Heart. 119 


He came. How fitting that on this day 
of all others in winter we should have 
living leaves and glowing blossoms 
about us. What a heavenly day it is, 
so full of gentleness and peace and 
charity. How quiet my heart is under 
its touch ! 

This has been a busy year for me, 
and a happy one, for so much of my 
old strength has come back that I have 
kept well through all the crowded 
weeks. The first three months our 
home was filled with company, Jack’s 
friends and mine. There was a round 
of sight-seeing by day and entertain- 
ments by night, very pleasant for a 
while ; but how people can do it con- 
stantly, year after year, is a mystery. 

In July, Jack, Hugh and I went by 
sea from Baltimore to Boston. With 
all my love for the ocean, and familiar- 


120 The Song of a Heart. 


ity with it, I had never been “out of 
sight of land” before. It gave me a 
sense of awe to watch the tossing waters 
that seemed to cover the world and 
flow outward into space, and the weird 
sound of the wind in the rigging made 
me feel like a “shipwrecked mariner.” 
Every one was gay enough when we 
steamed out of Norfolk Harbor, but 
that was almost the last of it. Nearly 
all the passengers were dreadfully sea- 
sick, and so cross. Had I not been too 
ill to lift my head or speak, doubtless 
I would have been cross, too. But 
when I finally managed with Jack’s 
help to wobble up to the deck, the situ- 
ation was so ludicrous that I laughed 
till the tears came. I was sorry for 
them all, though, and for myself, too. 
We had return tickets, but when we 
reached Boston, Jack changed them. 


The Song of a Heart. 121 

He said he would rather walk home 
than try that trip again. 

We have had the house freshly 
papered, and I put up quantities of 
fruit. The season was a pleasant one. 
The city was cool, and green, and beau- 
tiful, and the evenings with Jack so 
filled with rest and quiet happiness 
that I felt and almost seemed to hear 
those rhythmic words : 

“ With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 

Under the walls of paradise.” 

December of this year saw the com- 
pletion of the Washington Monument. 
The first corner stone laid in July, 
1848, it has stood in its unfinished 
state all these years a silent reproach 
to the nation. The great question of 
slavery was shaking the country from 
sea to sea during most of these years — 


122 The Song of a Heart. 


there were financial panics and occa- 
sional partial failures of crops, but none 
of these can quite make me feel that 
Americans have discharged their duty 
to that great American who served and 
loved our country so well, and I am 
glad with all my heart that it has 
fallen to my own generation to finish 
the majestic shaft. And it is incom- 
parable — cold white against a storm- 
black sky, or clearly cut from its back- 
ground of spotless blue, or shining with 
golden and rosy tints of sunrise and 
sunset, or partly in light and partly in 
deepest shadow, it is a never ceasing 
delight to the eye. 

And now, we have reached Christ- 
mas. It is a great day for Hugh, and 
how little it takes to make it such for 
children. Skates and a sled, some 
books, a knife, and some candy, have 


The Song of a Heart. 128 


made his eyes shine like stars all day. 
Jack gave me a deed of our house, and 
with it this dear little note: ‘‘To my 
dear wife, to whose good management 
I owe house and land, I give the whole. 
Please let me stay too.” Reading this 
I laughed, and then found tears coming 
into my eyes. Not that I care which 
of us owns the house, but it was so 
gentle and loving in its thought of me, 
and appreciation of what I have tried 
to do for him. And then besides, it 
came over me in a sudden rush what a 
different thing life would be if he was 
taken out of it. Now, I must make 
my will so that if I should die first he 
will have a “place to stay.” 

Hugh has repaid all the care and 
time I have spent on him. He is truth- 
ful always, obedient and unselfish. 
And I for my part have tried faith- 


124 The Song of a Heart. 


fully, as though he were my very own, 
to lead him along the right way and 
make him strong in it. How much of 
the happy result is owing to himself 
and how much to his training I do not 
know. But I shall not be afraid to 
meet his father and mother by and by 
and have them ask me what I did for 
their child. Better than this, I do not 
fear to have God know it all, for what- 
ever mistakes I have made through 
ignorance, I have made none through 
carelessness or neglect. 

How good He has been to me this 
year, and all my years. I do not fear 
to trust Him for any or all to come. 
It is enough to know we are in His 
hands. Blindfolded as we go into the 
future, there is room in my heart only 
for peace. 


The Song of a Heart. 125 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1885. 

The day has come again with its 
world-wide brightness and peace. Thank 
God, I am here to take it all into my 
heart. All the twelve months have 
been happy ones. Until July, we 
stayed at home. The winter was 
long and cold, but we were all well. 
March April and May were gay 
with guests. Hugh has come to be a 
great help in entertaining ; always 
ready to go everywhere, never tired, 
and never rude or impolite, as so many 
boys are at his age. Jack and I are 
proud of him. 

In July, we visited Hester and Jim 
in their beautiful new home. It was 
delightful to see her in this last role. 
Everything was fresh and dainty, and 
she the daintiest of all. How strange 
it seems that sisters can be so differ- 


126 The Song of a Heart. 


ent. Slie so handsome, I so plain ; she 
so fond of all sorts of gayeties, I flying 
from them at the smallest excuse that 
can be mustered ; she with that inde- 
scribable air of the world which beauty 
and wealth generally give, I hopelessly 
unfashionable, no matter what dress I 
wear, or what hour I call. Still, I 
would not change with her. or any 
one. Life has been so sweet and 
friends so dear. But sometimes, feel- 
ing odd among all the others, a vague 
loneliness comes over me. It is prob- 
ably my own fault, but I would like to 
know how and why. 

In August, one of my old school 
friends came to visit me, and we 
talked back to the college days, till it 
seemed as if we were girls again, walk- 
ing, books in hand, down the long 
study hall, into the Botany class, where 


The Song of a Heart. 127 


I hated to see the blossoms torn apart, 
into the chemical room, with its fasci- 
nating experiments, into the mathe- 
matical classes, where I always drew 
such unsightly, crooked figures, and 
where I first found ‘‘poetry in mathe- 
matics,” in measuring the distances of 
stars, and following the story of discov- 
ered planets. Then the lessons we 
studied together at home with a plate 
of fresh doughnuts between us, and the 
frisky kittens we played with when the 
last book was closed ; all came back to 
us in such real fashion that it was 
startling to count back and find how 
many years ago it was, and how 
different we are now — the self-confi- 
dence toned down, most of the ideals 
fallen. Still the hunger for them 
stays on, and the unconquerable and 


128 The Song of a Heart. 


passionate faith in their future reali- 
zation. 

The heat during August and Septem- 
ber was terrible, so long-continued and 
intense. The poor car horses suffered 
most of all. When and where are the 
balances to swing even for them? 
Wherever it is I would like to be there 
to see. 

October and November were delight- 
ful, the weather redeemed itself, and 
even December, which, having Christ- 
mas needs nothing else, has been one 
long succession of cloudless, perfect 
days. And to-day is a happy Christ- 
mas. Our gifts are from those we love, 
and so far as we can reach we have 
left no one out of our remembrance, 
not even the homeless cats, poor souls, 
that scramble over the garden wall in 
search of a bone. How good it would 


The Song of a Heart. 129 


be if for this one day even, every liv- 
ing creature in the world was happy. 
I have so much, my pleasant home and 
Hugh and Jack. Dear Jack, it seems 
to me I love him better each year. 
Now into the unknown we go as we 
have gone before, but our Father goes 
with us and there is no room for fear. 
We are safe and happy in His hands. 
And so good-bye, dear old year. You 
are one that I can never forget, be sure 
of that, for it is true. 

Oh God ! keep us near to Thee 
through all the coming year, in light 
and joy if it pleases Thee, but with 
Thee still even though it be in darkness 
and pain : for in Thy presence the dark- 
est cloud has a silver lining, and without 
Thee the brightest sunshine and bluest 
sky are dull and lifeless. 


130 The Song of a Heart. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1886. 

Blessed day with its hallowed memo- 
ries and world-wide charity ; I love it 
more and more the older I grow. It 
has been a radiant day this year. So 
blue a sky, such yellow sunshine, might 
belong to June. The months have 
been mingled light and shadow, tears 
and sad days set against happy smiles 
and light hearts. 

Jack and I watched the year in. Not 
in a crowded church, under blazing gas- 
lights, but standing together at one of 
our own windows ; shadow within, the 
star-lighted heavens without, we waited 
silently, listening for the bells. A 
strange awe crept over me. It seemed 
as if unseen hosts were also waiting, 
and listening, not for our bells, not for 
the new year, but for the angel halle- 
lujahs that shall usher in the thousand 


The Song of a Heart. 131 


years of peace. Alas, how long the 
world has waited , How much longer 
must it wait? 

Suddenly all the air was full of the 
clang of bells, the booming of guns, 
the screaming of whistles, and people 
thronged the streets. We could hear 
them laughing and chatting, and ex- 
changing congratulations. The gayety 
was catching. For a moment the 
“Happy New Year” with which I turned 
to Jack seemed the fitting expression 
for all its days. Hugh’s curly head 
appeared over the banisters, as he 
called out : “Happy New Year for all of 
us.” And Jack answered back: “Let 
us make a happy beginning by going 
to sleep at once.” This they suddenly 
did, but I waited till the bells and 
whistles and voices ceased and the 
streets were empty. It was nothing 


132 The Song of a Heart. 


different after all, this new year. Why 
should any thrill of awe come to me any 
more than to Jack? But perhaps Jack 
kept it to himself, he is a very prac- 
tical fellow. 

Early in February, my old friend, 
Dr. Reynolds, was struck instantly 
down with paralysis. For three days 
he lay unconscious, and then word 
came he had gone. The bright young 
days I had spent in his home trooped 
thickly through my memory ; the sum- 
mer afternoon drives, the quiet walks 
in pine woods, the reading aloud, the 
music, the evenings in the cozy library 
that always passed too quickly, his 
bright smile, his gentle touch on my 
hair, his generous, kindly words. Lit- 
tle wonder that gray shadows hung 
heavily over the days while he lay 
dead in that same room and was car- 


The Song of a Heart. 138 


ried out under tint same trees and over 
the same shady roads to his grave. 
Nearly all my life I have known and 
loved him. Now he has gone out of 
our world, and I am still here, happy, 
laughing, loving ; well, it is not so 
strange as much that has gone before 
it. I hope he knows now, or will know 
sometime, that I was loyal to my old 
friendship for him through all the 
silent years that lie piled up between 
us. 

Our little bird died in March. 
Whether it was because he had been 
mother’s bird, or partly because I had 
taken care of him so long I do not 
know, but there was something very 
like pain in my heart when we buried 
him under the white rose-bush, and the 
earth seemed so cold and wet for his 
soft yellow feathers and delicate feet. 


134 The Song of a Heart. 


This mystery we call death, even when 
it touches a little bird, is full of awe. 

The summer was lovely among the 
mountains and at the sea. If Jack was 
busy, Hugh was always ready for a 
ramble in the woods, or on the shore, 
and we almost lived out of doors, till 
it was time to start homeward. And 
how comical the autumn home coming 
is. The trains so long and full, every- 
body loaded down with satchels or car- 
rying flowers or plants or ferns, the 
unending stream of people that pours 
through the old-fashioned cars, all sun- 
burned and good-natured, all the clothes 
frayed out, and baggage of every de- 
scription piled up in the stations, and 
under every one’s feet in the cars. 
It is in sharp contrast to the Pull- 
man trains, and fine traveling habits 
and general atmosphere of “Vere-de 


The Song of a Heart. 135 


Vere” that oppress one during an ordi- 
nary trip. 

Christmas work has taken up nearly 
all of November and December, de- 
lightful work and delightful day. If it 
never comes again for me, I have had 
a full, happy share, and ought not to 
be unwilling to go when He shall send 
for me. So, a cheery good-bye to you, 
Christmas, dearly loved day. Never 
another, or many more, in either case 
I shall remember you forever. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1887. 

“Happiness has no history.” Then 
how happy a woman am I writing the 
uneventful record of these softly pass- 
ing years. A few weeks of bad weather, 
and I in my comfortable home. A 


136 The Song of a Heart. 


short season of great heat, and I at 
the seaside with its refreshing breezes, 
my dear ones with me. A little time 
now and then of ill health, followed 
by swift recovery. The simple duties 
of house cleaning, putting up fruit, 
and settling a winter wardrobe, per- 
haps training a new maid, this is all 
for the page of 1887. The country, 
too, is prosperous and at peace. I 
wish it were so everywhere, that every 
country and every home had only 
happy history. But where then would 
our heroes and martyrs be? Is it 
true that all greatness for man or 
woman must come out of suffering? 
What a mystery it all is. Alas for 
me, I have not the spirit of martyrs. 
The mere thought of what they have 
endured makes every nerve shudder. 
Let me keep to my simple duties and 


The Song of a Heart. 187 


my simple life ; simple service, too, 
will answer for me. 

I have not always thought so. I 
used to dream of brave deeds, heroic 
action, great service for the world. 
Why have I failed, or why did I dream? 
Is the failure to be traced to my happy 
life? That seems like a libel. Have 
I just carelessly or stupidly missed the 
chance to do all I ought? But how? 
To live forty-six years without finding 
out what one can or cannot do, seems 
to prove lack of capacity for anything 
particular. Probably I am only “fill- 
ing in” material, as this has been a 
filling in year. Once I would have 
felt humiliated by the thought of it, 
but not now. It is not strange that to 
one who can count almost fifty birth 
anniversaries, who sees the afternoon 
light on the western horizon, and 


138 The Song of a Heart. 

knows that it s ho rH not be long be- 
fore the sun will set, there comes a 
passionate desire to be always, even 
in small things, clean, and true and 
noble. When I feel sure of myself in 
these, it will be time to reach out after 
something larger. 

This year I have met quite a num- 
ber of woman suffragists. They are 
bright and much in earnest, and seem 
to believe that when women can vote, 
we shall have an unfailing panacea for 
human ills. Doubtless in special cases 
it would prove so, but generally I do 
not believe it. It is not strange that 
thoughtful women ask for better laws 
guarding their property and personal 
rights, but in questions affecting the 
general welfare of the country, why 
should all ’women vote right any more 
than all men? Women have not shown 


The Song of a Heart. 189 


themselves above selling their votes, 
they follow a leader blindly, or some 
isolated idea that has struck them, they 
even refuse to inform themselves on a 
subject that is distasteful to them, they 
allow prejudice or personal interest to 
influence their action. Why then, 
should universal suffrage for women be 
more of a success than it has been for 
men? It seems to me it would be bet- 
ter limited than increased. 

Our December has been delightful, 
cool and sunny, an ideal winter month. 
It makes me glad. Snowy days, gray 
above and white below and still every- 
where, are oppressive. Everything 
seems unreal ; as if my life were all a 
dream and those I love so well had no ex- 
istence except in the longing of my own 
heart. That, thank God, is strong and 
sturdy, and needs no warmth of folding 


140 The Song of a Heart. 


arm or loving word to keep it beating. 
The longest winter and deepest snows 
and dreariest silence have no power to 
reach or chill it. 

But I like Christmas as it is to-day, 
with clean streets and frosty air, and 
the sun shining brightly if not warmly. 
Lovely Christmas nevertheless, how- 
ever it comes. Even if wrapped in 
clouds and storms, I am always glad to 
count one more on the long golden 
rosary of the years. 


Washington, Christmas , 1888 . 

Old friend that never grows old, 
bringing always the patter of childish 
feet and the fragrant atmosphere of 
youth and old-time merriment and uni- 
versal good cheer ; filling for us once 


The Song of a Heart. 141 


more the vacant seats around the table 
and the mother’s arm chair at the fire- 
side, and telling us again of the glad 
reunion to come by and by,** . ; thou- 
sand and one greetings, dear beautiful 
day, crown of another happy year. 

The early months were filled with 
quiet home life, just drifting peace- 
fully with wind and tide. In May, 
Jack and I started on a combination 
trip. He went with me to the Musical 
Festival in Cincinnati, and I with him 
to the Republican Convention in Chi- 
cago. The music carried me back to 
the old home days, the symphonies of 
Beethoven and the songs of Schubert 
that we all enjoyed together when father 
and mother and Annie were alive, and 
Alfred and Hester at home. Through 
all the grand orchestral harmonies and 
the noble solos of Whitney they seemed 


142 The Song of a Heart. 


so near me I almost turned my head to 
see them smile. There is nothing in 
this world better than music except 
love. 

The great convention at Chicago was 
in sharp contrast to the festival, but it 
was soul stirring too, in its fashion. 
The immense room, the countless flags, 
the mass of people, all these were in- 
teresting ; but most of all the great 
game of politics played by wide-awake, 
determined men, leaders in the nation. 
Jack took it all in, or seemed to, and I, 
not understanding all of it, was still as 
much stirred as he. When the final 
scene came, and Harrison was the nom- 
inee, pandemonium reigned. Every- 
body waved flags or clapped, and the 
man in the linen coat with the huge 
“Harrison fan,” which he had been 
opening and shutting from the begin- 


The Song of a Heart. 143 


ning, became so frantic that those be- 
hind had to hold him down to save the 
lives of the people in front. Finally, 
the different delegations with flags fly- 
ing, marched over to where the Indiana 
banners were planted, and gravely 
saluted the delegation that had given 
the party its Presidential candidate. It 
is not strange that men like to be pol- 
iticians and dream of the White House . 

When we came home, we settled 
down to the small matters of life. Jack 
took to his office, and I set the house- 
cleaning machinery in motion. Then 
came the preserving. We had so many 
peaches and such fine ones every house- 
keeper was busy. Some newspapers 
said the “odor of cooking peaches per- 
vaded the land.” 

We have had three sets of guests this 
winter, a grand old-fashioned Thanks- 


144 The Song of a Heart. 


giving celebration and the merriest kind 
of a Christmas. 

In all my forty-seven years of life, I 
do not remember such a December as 
this has been, one long procession of 
shining days and nights, and to-day is 
as it should be, the climax of all. June 
skies, October sunshine, crisp, clear air. 
It is so good to have it so on this blessed 
birthday of our blessed Lord. How 
lovely a world this is ; what better 
Heaven could we have if only sin and 
sorrow were taken away. Dear little 
earth safely flying along your path 
among all the gigantic worlds that cir- 
cle you around, how beautiful you must 
be to one looking down on you through 
space ; fresh in your velvety green of 
spring, or with lace-like draperies of 
summer vines and leaves, and flower 
gems of pink and purple and blue, or 


The Song of a Heart. 145 


in coronation robes of autumn’s gold 
and scarlet, or pure and dazzling in 
winter’s bridal white. Happy little 
earth of the universe, with your sing- 
ing waters and dancing clouds, how 
small a part would even such a vision 
tell of all you are to us, your children, 
to whom you are given for a home. 
We know the glory of the sky as our 
sun sinks from sight, waving farewell 
to us with many-colored banners, which 
flame along the horizon till the land is 
wrapped in celestial fire ; the infinite 
pomp of the starry heavens, where 
worlds are the lights that move on in 
shining procession through all the dark- 
ened hours ; the majesty of the sea, 
forever heaving and tossing, and with 
ceaseless symphony of tone sweeping 
toward the shore to meet the vivid 
green of the marshlands and sink to 


146 The Song of a Heart. 


rest under sapphire-tinted air, or dash, 
ing itself over gray rocks and flying 
back in clouds of feathery foam. We 
know the velvety silence of the shad- 
owy woods, where the bright eyes of 
shy wild creatures peep out from the 
leaves, and the mosses sink under the 
lightest foot ; the chattering stream, 
the heavenly sweetness of the wild 
bird’s song, the balmy, perfumed air. 
Our eyes behold the solemn beauty of 
winter nights under the white radiance 
of the large moon, veiled here and 
there by the delicate crayons of bare 
branches swaying in the quick wind. 
Even the cities with their frowning 
walls and tall spires and hemmed in 
streets, are not quite shut out from the 
beauty that crowds upon us all the 
year. They are not beyond the reach 
of sunshine, and have divine glimpses 


The Song of a Heart. 147 


of lofty sky. And yet modern science 
tells us that earth is on its way to 
death. Worlds come and shine and go ; 
ours has come, is shining, and must go 
in turn. An endless chain this — a uni- 
verse of worlds telling the same dreary 
story of dying life and living death. 
But who can prove that science is right, 
for how can we, in the brief space 
called time, write the equation for eter- 
nity? Bound down by limitations we 
have no means of measuring, we prate 
of law for all the ages and all the 
worlds. We cannot unravel the prob- 
lem of our own life or tell what lies 
before it in the far-off future. How 
can we stamp as conclusive any step in 
pi’Ogress, when higher laws wait on 
coming discoveries? It is all a region 
of perad venture. The thought of a 
hungry soul may reach nearer the truth 


148 The Song of a Heart. 


than science can. If there is a loving 
God, if worlds were made by love and 
not evolved by blind force, can we be- 
lieve that the best or all he could do 
was to launch and fling them forward 
to their death? to clothe with heavenly 
beauty one so small as ours and sink it 
into nothingness at last? to set on high 
the blazing stars we see and doom them 
to everlasting emptiness and gloom? 
If earth is so lovely, why shall not the 
universe be aglow with light and color 
and atmosphere of crystal purity, 
through which vibrate thrilling har- 
monies, and in which sacred, blissful 
silence fills all existence with God? 
There is no room in such a thought for 
wreck or death, for it reveals the path 
of the material universe, like that of 
humanity, leading always onward and 
upward. Love does not give and take 


The Song of a Heart. 149 


back«*t7li to the perfect and immortal 
day, when the earth with the race 
shall have part in the unspeakable com- 
ing glory. So beautiful now, will its 
transfigured face change its familiar 
features? No, no ; our little world still, 
our little world always, our birthplace 
and our childhood’s home, so close to 
our hearts that the pageant of the uni- 
verse cannot make us forget you, or 
love you less, or cease to thrill at the 
sound of your name. Even from the 
mansions of the Eternal City and the 
banks of the River of Life, with “nei- 
ther sorrow nor crying, nor any more 
pain,” will not our human souls look 
longingly out and down to the familiar 
sea and shore and sky we have so 
dearly loved? Love bestows immortal- 
ity. Why then shall not earth en- 
dure forever — not dead cold matter, 


150 The Song of a Heart. 


but as we know it, only fairer, filled 
with a larger and higher vitality, well 
worth ages of preparation through fire 
and flood and all the physical forces at 
God’s command ; going through it all 
without loss, and crowned at last with 
eternal beauty which shall forever min- 
ister to the eternal life? What barriers 
of space or of physical law can hold us 
then? What has the law of gravity to 
do with eternal powers? All the gates 
of the universe open, why shall we not 
enter easily in? 

And the little story of our fleeting 
years, that too will surely hold its own 
forever even though by and by it 
seems narrow and broken and sorrow- 
ful, for notwithstanding this, the sweet- 
ness of it clings to all the days. 

But the scientists smile and say it is 
all a dream. And do they not also 


The Song of a Heart. 151 


dream? What if by and by they 
prove their conclusions for millions of 
years, there are billions beyond. We 
all swing from our moorings here and 
are in dreamland together. Are their 
dream better, or this? Who would not 
believe in life rather than death? Who 
would have the eyes bound by the ig- 
norance of infant science when such a 
vision of glory is possible? Dream on 
my heart, the dream is sweet ; you need 
not fear the frown or scorn of law. She 
is but a child like yourself, and has al- 
most everything to learn. Let stars 
burn out and worlds dash together un- 
til the prophecy of the scientist seems 
to be fulfilling. Dream on, for Love is 
doing the work and there can be but 
one outcome. Through fire and flood 
and tempest it may be, but His own 
must come back to Him at last. Worlds 


152 The Song of a Heart. 

of death are not for Him. Deserts and 
destructive storms and noxious growths 
and fever-laden air, are not a part of 
lasting life and shall pass forever when 
their work is done. 

And if material worlds are worth 
ages of preparation, is a soul worth 
less ? Who shall dare to turn the hour 
glass and set a limit to God’s work? 
Does He love a world better than a 
soul, or is His power over the one 
greater than over the other? Must we 
stand with finger on our lips in silence, 
or shall we tell our dream of hope and 
life and love “coming far off at last to 
all?” 

Let scientists smile and theologians 
frown, we need not mind the smile or 
fear the frown. Through the fleeting 
beauty of to-day we may reach upward 
confidently to the eternal glory of to- 


The Song of a Heart. 153 


morrow, gathering from it heart to en- 
courage and help the struggling souls 
about us, bound down by the dragging 
environments of ignorance or sin, and 
with natures warped till it seems im- 
possible for them to turn towards the 
light. No work can be so happy not 
only for others but for ourselves, for 
what would all the beauty of the uni- 
verse be to us, or how could we even 
bear to look upon it while any souls 
within our reach or within our knowl- 
edge were on their way from shipwreck 
to death, souls of our own planet, of 
our own race, that know what loneli- 
ness and pain and heartache mean ; 
that perhaps have never known much 
beside, and to whom light and love 
would bring their first real life? So 
long as these are not reclaimed, part of 
the universe lies in shadow, and surg- 


154 The Song of a Heart. 


ing up through the harmony the dirge 
will dominate the whole. 

Dear little earth, when your resur- 
rection day shall come, there will be no 
graves upon your bosom. All your 
children will be there to greet you and 
their voices with yours blend in the 
great Hallelujah Chorus of the Uni- 
verse, “like the sound of many waters.” 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1889. 

To-day we are having a family re- 
union. Alfred and his wife and the 
bairns, Hester and Jim, Tom and 
Kitty, have all come, and our home 
is delightfully full. It seems like the 
old days when we were children to- 
gether ; lacking only the faces that have 
been so long hidden from us. If we 


The Song of a Heart. 155 


could see these too, what a Christmas it 
would be. 

This year will be remembered as the 
rainy one. Ten months out of the 
twelve have been misty or cloudy 
or stormy, with January and December 
like bright clasps to a dark chain. The 
Christmas month has been sunny and 
warm, our summer coming late. We 
have had open windows nearly all the 
time. 

I have passed my forty-eighth birth- 
day. It seems so odd to see wrinkles 
on my face, and then remember that it 
is I who am so old. It is such a short 
time since I was a young girl. How 
very short a whole life is, but some- 
times I am tired notwithstanding. It 
is strange to think of eternity of living, 
without one trace of weariness, with 
steady growth and steady increase of 


156 The Song of a Heart. 


capacity, and crowning it all, eternally 
growing love, the central power in all 
that measureless life. But nothing less 
would ever satisfy the restless hunger 
of human hearts. 

What will 1890 bring to me? Full 
of awe though the question is, strange 
thrilling rapture is there also. Face 
to face with the Divine Lord, this may 
come before another Christmas shall 
dawn on earth. Dear Christ, make 
me pure and fit for that meeting. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1890. 

Beautiful day that never grows old, 
fresh and fair and strong in our hearts 
always. I am glad it comes at the end 
of the year instead of the beginning. 
It brightens the last days that are sad 


The Song of a Heart. 157 


as are all farewells, and softens the un- 
happy ones that are scattered through 
the earlier months. 

This has been a red, white, and blue 
year. First, Jack, Hugh and I took a 
trip to Lookout Mountain and Mission- 
ary Ridge, the great battlefield. I felt 
a rush of uncontrollable pride as we 
looked down the steep slope that our 
blue-coated soldiers climbed under a 
dreadful rain of lead and iron, planting 
“Old Glory” on the summit. It is 
worth everything to an American 
woman with American blood in her 
veins from the middle of the seven- 
teenth century, to see that battle- 
ground. It would be strange indeed 
if women born of revolutionary an- 
cestors and living themselves through 
the Civil War did not love America 
better than home, or life, or friends. 


158 The Song of a Heart. 

The patriotic organizations that are 
springing up through the country 
ought to do much for the younger 
generations that must learn to love it 
over a less heroic path than we who 
came before them. Here the South 
and the North can really unite for the 
first time since the Revolution — for 
our race and for our country. Great 
results should be the outcome of such 
a meeting. Supreme love of country 
that far outreaches state pride or love, 
devotion to America against the flood 
of foreign ideas that threaten her, and 
love at last for our southern sisters 
that will wipe away the bitterness of 
the time when we believed their hands 
stained with their country’s life blood. 
It seemed to me once I never could for- 
give them, but I believe now I can. 
At least until now my heart had no 


The Song of a Heart. 159 


room for anything but indignation and 
scorn. But to-day I only say softly to 
myself, oh I wish they had not done it, 
how I wish they had not done it. 

November and December have been 
delightful sunshiny months. We have 
had a gay Christmas with a large tree 
in the kitchen for the cook and maid 
and the “pic^ninnies” of the two fami- 
lies. 

1890 stands back now among the 
shadows, gone forever. For us it has 
been a happy, prosperous year, one 
more added to the long train which 
God has made so good. The unknown 
stands at the door, but He will keep 
us through all its weeks and months, 
whether they be stormy or kind, 
whether they write across our names 
life or death. No road so dark or so 


160 The Song of a Heart. 


far through space that we can fear to 
enter it, for it is sure to lead to Him. 

“ Nor heaven have I, nor place to lay my head, 
Nor home, but Thee.” 


Washington, D C., Christmas , 1891. 

This year, new and unknown such a 
short time ago, has become an old 
friend, and we are waiting regretfully 
to bid it farewell. This is not true of 
all the months, for some of them were 
spent in having “improvements” made 
in our house, and long before the last 
workman left the premises for good 
and all, I felt as though Jack must 
learn all the heavy trades, and I the 
light ones, if we were ever to have 
much work done in the future. I do 
not believe that all workingmen are 


The Song of a Heart. 161 


victims, or that all employers are un- 
just. This question of labor and cap- 
tal, will it ever be settled? How 
strange it seems that the world has 
never been able, with all its years 
of experience, to adjust the balance. 
What a comment on human intellect 
and statesmanship, unless, indeed, we 
must look alone to moral power to de- 
cide such matters. That seems a rea- 
sonable conclusion. When the brother- 
hood of man is fully recognized there 
will be no more strikes, no need of 
unions, no trampling on the rights of 
any. What a place this world will be 
when that day dawns. 

In June, Hugh graduated from the 
academy and was ready for college. 
His essay was fine, and his appearance 
manly. If he is self-conceited he never 
shows it. Jack and I are well satisfied 


162 The Song of a Heart. 


with him, and are not afraid to trust 
him away from home. Whatever he 
may do, it will be nothing unworthy. 

Early in August we went to the sea, 
and had days and weeks of perfect 
sunshine, and lovely moon and star- 
light. From the hotel windows we 
could see our own little cottage going 
up week by week. It is all ready for 
us next year, and what a pleasure it 
will be to fit up the bright rooms for 
our simple country life there ; just far 
enough from the crowd to have quiet, 
and yet near enough for Jack to keep 
up with the news. 

Walking through the fragrant, shad- 
owy woods, rowing over the blue wa- 
ter, watching the sun dip into the bay ; 
the rocks golden brown in the after- 
noon light, and the air so clear it 
seemed sapphire-tinted ; or standing on 


The Song of a Heart. 168 


the long wharf under the full moon, 
while the high tides rushed inward and 
upward under its mysterious power ; 
thus the two delightful months of Au- 
gust and September passed. Then 
we came home, and Hugh went to his 
books. The sun has shone through 
all the autumn months, but to-day ev- 
erything outdoors is gray and disagree- 
able. Still, no weather can spoil 
Christmas. Nothing can rob the day 
of its aureole of glory. And to wo- 
men most of all, this day of His birth 
should be most dear, for He never failed 
to soothe a woman’s pain, or turned 
away from a woman’s love. I am so 
glad to be one myself. Nothing could 
make me wish to be a man. 

How fast I am nearing that wonder- 
ful future life. My fiftieth birthday 
lies just behind me, and sometimes I 


164 The Song of a Heart. 


feel the awe and exultation of coming 
immortality, as one feels in the spring 
air the thrill of coming summer. And 
though life here is sweet and friends 
are very dear, often I would be glad to 
go, or better and nearer the truth, glad 
if He would come. There is so much 
of sorrow and sin and ruin that can 
never be wiped out until He does come, 
and so, while my own little life is 
happy I would be glad to-night to have 
it all end, and relief come to the race 
and the planet. 

“ Even so, come Lord Jesus.” 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1892. 
For the first time in my life so far 
back as memory can go, I have been 
ill all day Christmas. Jack and I had 


The Song of a Heart. 165 


planned an old fashioned honeymoon 
visit as Hugh has gone to visit his col- 
lege chum, and we are by ourselves. 
It is a great disappointment, for Jack 
is so busy of late years that we seldom 
have any time together, and all day I 
have been unable even to talk. But 
there has been ample opportunity to re- 
member how much I have to be thank- 
ful for. Through the bitterly cold 
week just gone, while there has been 
so much suffering, I have had a warm 
room and good bed, and kind care and 
every need supplied as soon as felt. 
God is good to me. 

In April, Jack and I went to a grand 
dinner at the White House. The 
beautiful rooms, the dainty table with 
its white flowers and graceful ferns, 
the soft light, the softer music, and the 
ripple of talk and laughter made a 


166 The Song of a Heart. 


charming picture to remember. But 
when it was oyer, and we stepped out 
in the cold air to the carriage, where 
the many coachmen sat swinging their 
arms to keep from freezing, it all faded 
away, and I could see only the hungry, 
shivering, or friendless men and women 
in the world who never see such rooms, 
or sit down to such a table. So every 
enjoyment of this kind has a sting. 
How glad I shall be when every human 
being in the universe has a fair, full 
chance. 

May came in with dull, cross skies, 
but at last they cleared into beauty. I 
spent many afternoons in the church 
listening to the practice of the organ- 
ist, and such a feast as it was ; the 
solemn, empty church, no voice to 
break the strange quiet, the minor 
strains mounting to the top of the or- 


The Song of a Heart. 167 


gan, and then falling back and down 
with wave-like motion till they sank 
dying in the abyss of tone below. I 
forgot everything outside for the time ; 
the new spring dresses ruined by the 
dressmaker, the crowd of home matters 
demanding attention, unreturned calls 
haunting the days : all melted away 
from vision or thought even, while I 
was in the world of music ; a sacred 
world where the soul meets God alone. 

June brought for us the sea, and our 
own new little cottage serenely set 
above the waters. It looked so lovely 
to me, and the work of furnishing it 
was almost like the doll times of my 
childhood. Hugh and his college friend 
stayed with us until the autumn term 
opened. Then Jack and I spent a month 
“improving” the grounds, coming home 
in October. 


168 The Song of a Heart. 

The rest of the year has flown on 
winged feet. The blue skies have 
lasted almost to this Christmas day. I 
count up the many we have had of 
these, and feel a dread as I look for- 
ward. Will separation come next year 
to us? Will it be for many years? 
And what will re-union be when it 
comes ? Earthly relationships are types 
of the blissful ties we shall enjoy be- 
yond. God our loving Father, Christ 
our Elder Brother, we the loyal chil- 
dren — one Divine family. Does the 
parallel go only thus far? Is the most 
beautiful and tender of all earth’s 
beautiful relationships the only one that 
does not point onward to the immortal 
life ? I do not believe it. Every human 
soul has its counterpart. Separated by 
a thousand accidents in this world, per- 
haps never meeting in this existence, 


The Song of a Heart. 169 


there the two pure souls will come to- 
gether, enjoying henceforth a blissful 
communion only dimly shadowed forth 
by the most perfect marriage that earth 
has ever seen. Separation can not hurt 
such souls as these. A brief silence, a 
brief space, then no more apart for- 
ever. But that brief space? Ah, mem- 
ory has a thousand stings, and there 
are many days in every year. Still, it 
is better to bear the pain of memory 
than to lose remembrance, so long as 
love is safe, and however old and gray 
and dull we may become, love will not 
share the general wreck. That, if noth- 
ing else, is beyond the reach of decay. 
So why need I fear the veiled face of 
the future? Love can not be robbed by 
time. 


170 The Song of a Heart. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 1893 . 

Blessed day. Day I love more and 
more as the years, flying so fast, are 
lessening the space between my soul 
and His divine face. Day of all days, 
on which to make the record of my 
life, this little life which will so soon 
be over. 

We began the year with stormy, 
snowy, bitterly cold weather, and my 
throat bothered me greatly. But inside 
our home everything was bright and 
w r arm, and happy home life went 
on. During March we were almost 
buried in snow. It was a hard time 
for the poor, because the weather was 
unusual. My cough held on, so in May 
Jack took me south, and then, after 
warm days came, to my old home. 
The short time we were there it was 


The Song of a Heart. 171 


balmy and bright, and we drove to the 
beautiful cemetery, where I had a quiet 
visit with the graves that are so dear 
because of those who were laid there. I 
cleared away the fallen twigs, and scat- 
tered the flowers we carried. It was a 
peaceful and sacred hour, and I felt 
sorry to turn away and leave the spot. 

The visit south was a new experi- 
ence ; the balmy air, the brilliant 
flowers, the luxuriance of green, and 
the southern women with their charm- 
ing ways. When we came home my 
cough was gone, our garden was fresh 
and fragrant, the house sunny, and it 
was sweet to be alive and see the grass 
growing, and feel in the air the com- 
ing of summer. On our cozy table 
was a large bunch of sweet peas, of 
exquisite texture, which Jack had or- 


172 The Song of a Heart. 


dered for our arrival, to surprise me, 
dear old fellow. 

Hugh went to the World’s Fair, but 
Jack and I were not greatly tempted. 
Every one tells us that we made the 
mistake of our lives, but I dreaded the 
immense crowd, and Jack had been so 
busy and tired he was only too glad to 
go away from people and noise into the 
quiet seaside cottage, with the wide 
still landscape about us and the far- 
reaching sky. We had a happy, happy 
summer, living in the sunshine and 
pure air week after week, with radiant 
skies by day and night, glowing sun- 
sets, and the long twilight of the north 
with large soft moons. September came 
with its full rushing tides, and mellow 
lights, and velvety silence ; the sun 
slipping gradually further south, warn- 
ing us that it was nearing the time 


The Song of a Heart. 173 


to say good-bye to the cottage for an- 
other winter ; the soft cricket voices 
calling “go — go — go,” “no — no — no,” 
until the silence, and music and beauty 
of it all made me almost light-headed. 

Only one snowstorm this year so far. 
That is good for the poor. How I used 
to enjoy snow once, but not now, never 
any more. It brings too much suffer- 
ing. 

Jack and I are growing old, and the 
shadows are longer and deeper ; but 
Christmas has made the morning hori- 
zon clear and bright, and our faces are 
turned thither. 

“ Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and 
ours, 

Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers.” 


174 The Song of a Heart. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas , 189 J. 

Yes, death was very near, “shadow- 
ing us and ours” when last I wrote 
those words. This year, so rich in blue 
skies and sunny days, marks the Home- 
going of another of our own. How 
unnatural it seems, even after these 
nine months of her absence, to call her 
name with those of the dead. Poor 
Hester, taken so suddenly from Jim 
and her beautiful home, and her many 
friends. She was ill one week and 
sunk rapidly until the evening of Good 
Friday, when she fell asleep, and on 
Easter Monday we followed her to the 
grave ; gone from the life she so loved, 
and in which she made so many happy. 
The shadow of it has fallen over all 
this beautiful year. Spring days, with 
their welcome sunshine, were sad. 
Summer (such a summer of bright 


The Song of a Heart. 175 


days and clear skies) was full of op- 
pressive loneliness. But for this it 
would have been ideal. I sat alone 
on the porch day after day, looking 
out at the white sails and the whiter 
clouds beyond which she had gone, 
and my heart cried out for her, this 
sister with whom I seldom agreed ; 
with whom I had so many sharp argu- 
ments, but who was so generous, and 
loyal, and loving. Her last words to 
me on that last night were “good-night 
darling girl,” and we felt sure she 
would speak to us in the morning, but 
she did not know us again. 

How do those who have no faith in 
the resurrection morning, live and keep 
their reason? If we are never to meet 
again and know our own who have left 
us, how awful would those endless ages 
be to our hearts. Annihilation is a 


176 The Song of a Heart. 


thousand times preferable to a life with 
all the dearest part of it wiped out. I 
must believe that they are all mine 
still, and will be mine always. Not 
otherwise could I bear the burden of 
the death separation. “Sometime, 
somewhere in a happier clime, we’ll 
say good-morning.” 

We came home from the sea in Sep- 
tember, but the loneliness came also, 
and to-day, of all days in the year, how 
I miss her. She loved Christmas so 
well, and enjoyed remembering every 
one with gifts, and all the poor she 
could reach. Christmas, if nothing 
else, will make it impossible for our 
lives to be the same without her. I 
am glad she is so closely associated 
with this birthday of our Lord ; and 
more beautiful still, in her death she 
is with Him, dying on Good Friday 


The Song of a Heart. 177 


when He died, her first Sunday in 
heaven, Easter, as His was. In all our 
sweetest thoughts of Him her memory 
will mingle, and it cannot be many 
years before we will all be together. 
Sometimes that life seems near and 
real, and far more desirable than this. 

“ But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 

Is the dim and unknown stream 
That leads at last to the light.” 

If we did not go alone, it would not 
seem so dreadful. If Jack could go 
with me, I would not be afraid. 


Washington, D. C., Christmas, 1895. 

“ December, fair and holly-crowned 
With the Christ Child in her arms.” 

And yet how full of violence and suf- 
fering the year has been. Jack says I 


178 The Song of a Heart. 


take life too hard. But how can any 
one as old as I, seeing the misery and 
wrong and awful wickedness of the 
w T orld, help taking it hard? Pitiful 
record for our boasted civilization at the 
close of the nineteenth century, are the 
terrible massacres in Armenia ; shame- 
ful record for the “Christian nations” 
of Europe, allowing questions of 
boundaries and commerce to tie their 
hands while the “unspeakable Turks” 
were blotting out a nation. 

This year has also brought an awful 
revelation of what vivisection is doing 
in our country. It has thrown a dark 
shadow over my heart that does not 
for any length of time pass away. ‘ ‘The 
worst crime in the world,” well called ; 
cowardly as well as cruel, a libel on 
science, a disgrace to human kind. 
How can anybody believe for one mo- 


The Song of a Heart. 179 


ment that a good God who loves all His 
creatures would ever bless such processes 
for any object. 

They will come to grief, for they 
trample on the moral law of the 
Universe. If we seek or find happi- 
ness at the cost of other lives, even 
though they be far beneath us in 
the acknowledged scale, the blurring 
of our moral perception is inevitable. 
Even if all the physicians of all 
lands gave their united testimony in 
favor of vivisection, it would still be 
true that it violates the law of justice 
and unselfishness . Are we to set against 
these the ignoble claim that the contin- 
uance of mere physical existence re- 
quires it? Is it worth the cost? A few 
more years on earth, an uncertain gain 
of health, of what value would they 
be with that black line across the soul? 


180 The Song of a Heart. 


Who can believe that an Almighty Cre- 
ator could find no better way to preserve 
a race than by destroying the helpless 
and weaker creature and debauching 
the one made in His own image? And 
how empty the claim that it is beneficial, 
when the doctors themselves are all at 
odds about it, so many of the leading 
lights of the profession declaring it a 
hindrance to true progress, and common 
sense proving that all natural processes 
are destroyed by sharp agony, and that 
no result can be trusted that filters 
through the quivering nerve and crazed 
brain of the speechless creatures. If 
the doctors would only enforce the laws 
of health and teach us how to live 
rightly, they would do more in ten years 
to rid the world of disease than they 
have done in centuries, following these 
false methods to which they are so 


The Song of a Heart. 181 


wedded and which are so cruel. Poor, 
innocent, dumb creatures. I hope they 
will have a future life somewhere, a 
happy one into which their cruel tor- 
mentors shall never come. Since some 
of the finest intellects of the world have 
believed this, it is at least respect-com- 
pelling, and it appeals to me in the very 
core of my heart. If every other sin 
could be sufficiently punished in this 
world, I do not believe this one can. 
And what agonies of remorse and self- 
loathing must those endure in the fu- 
ture, who have so ruthlessly and bar- 
barously trampled on the rights of in- 
nocent creatures committed to our care 
by the Creator. The knowledge of this 
horrible crime has made a different 
thing of life for me. The lovely earth 
that has filled my heart with delight is 
just as fair and dear, but I can never 


182 The Song of a Heart. 


again banish the misery altogether. It 
seems a wonder that I can forget it any 
of the time. 

This year too, news came to me that 
the seventeen-year-old daughter of one 
of my school-mates has drowned her- 
self, having been deceived and wronged 
by the man she loved. Poor young 
soul ! betrayed by a counterfeit of the 
divine passion of love ! I will not be- 
lieve that the loving Lord, who was so 
gentle and tender even to a “woman 
who had sinned,” will fail to shelter 
this little child who took her own life in 
the frenzy of her despair. Even by re- 
vealed truth we cannot measure either 
in time or degree the extent of Christ’s 
offered forgiveness. The weak, sin- 
stained souls that go out into the un- 
known cannot wander so far that He 
can lose them; “cannot drift beyond 


The Song of a Heart. 183 


His love and care,” and in His hands 
they surely are safe. Who shall dare 
to set bounds to His redeeming power 
over any creature He has made, no 
matter how far the misguided feet have 
wandered, or limit the field in which 
an Infinite Love can reveal itself to 
conquer and to save? The one truth 
above all other truths which wins for 
Him the intense adoration of the soul, 
is this of His measureless love for every 
lost sheep of His human fold, which 
sends Him after it through storm and 
wind and darkness, till He brings it 
back in safety. 

How I long to see the land of His 
birth before I die. All the “tinsel 
shrines” and labeled localities could not 
spoil the vision of the City as it bursts 
into view at the turn in the narrow, 
rocky road between it and Bethany — so 


184 The Song of a Heart. 


narrow that to see the sight one must 
stand where He stood, so rocky that all 
the centuries have not yet crumbled 
down the surface which His feet pressed ; 
and the winding path up Olivet, that 
led Him to Gethsemane, and the Sea of 
Galilee on which His eyes so often 
rested, and the village on the hill with 
its old stone wells, where as a child He 
drank, and the place doubly sacred to 
every woman where his baby eyes first 
saw the light, light that in so few years 
would fall upon His Cross. What crowd- 
ing, fighting, so-called “Christians” at 
their shrines could blur such memories ? 
What filth of street or town or people 
could stain or touch the purity of such 
a picture, or crowd back or down, the 
thrilling exultation and passionate wor- 
ship rising in the soul? 


The Song of a Heart. 185 


“ If Jesus Christ is a man — 

And only a man — I say 
That of all mankind I cleave to Him, 

And to Him will I cleave alway. 

If Jesus Christ is a God, 

And the only God, I swear 
I will follow Him through heaven or hell, 
The earth, the sea, and the air.” 

1895 has been kind to me. I have 
twice been very ill, but my life has been 
sheltered and happy. My home is 
spared and my dearest one is here, 
where I can reach him. But because I 
love him so well, I shrink from the hid- 
den year coming. Oh God, help me 
through my fear, and notwithstanding 
it, to find in Thee absolute repose. 


Christmas , 1896. 

The hidden weeks that I feared have 
come and gone, and another Christmas 


186 The Song of a Heart. 


has dawned for me. What a delicious 
joy life would be if for the world as 
for me there was so much to make one 
happy. But while we were reveling 
in the mild pleasant winter months, 
entertaining friends and occasionally 
going to beautiful dinners, Armenia 
was freezing and starving and being 
tortured to death, while so-called 
“Christian nations” idly watched, some 
of them meanwhile stealing land from 
weaker countries for themselves. And 
through all the first part of the year, 
in the horrible laboratories of many 
countries, thousands of innocent, lov- 
ing, dumb creatures were being slowly 
murdered in great agony, in the name 
of science. How can any one be thor- 
oughly happy in such a world? 

March and April held me a close 
prisoner with “grip,” but in May, Jack 


The Song of a Heart. 187 


took me down to the southern woods. 
The balmy air cured my cough, and 
there for the first time I saw the beauti- 
ful red bird of the south in his free- 
dom. Sitting on the highest bough of 
a tall tree, outlined against the blue 
sky like a spot of ruddy flame, he was 
singing as though his heart would burst 
with happiness. How I gloated over 
the fact that no man with a gun was 
anywhere near to blot out the red glory 
or hush the exquisite song. 

The second of March was the twenty- 
fifth anniversary of our marriage. All 
sorts of charming plans for its celebra- 
tion had passed through my mind, but 
the doctor forbade them, so Jack and I 
devoted the day to a drive in the woods. 
It was mild and sunny, and in the 
shadowy, grey nooks the rustling of 
last year’s oak leaves was all that broke 


188 The Song of a Heart. 

the silence in which we “hushed and 
blessed ourselves.” We do not need to 
talk so much as we did in our young 
days. 

Summer passed by the sea. Fog 
and rain and wind held high carnival 
during the first month ; but the sea- 
gulls flew and birds sung in the rain, 
golden daisies and red field lilies grew 
under gray skies, and cottage life held 
its own. The little home in its fresh 
dress of creamy paint made a dainty 
picture against the sky, and Jack and 
I were together whether on land or 
ocean. In October we said good-bye 
to the restful life, the open horizon, 
the great sweep of sky, and came back 
to streets and brick walls, and the weary 
rush of the city, never so regretfully. 

November took us north to Chicago 
and the great lake, to see Tom and 


The Song of a Heart. 189 


Kitty. There we spent happy days in 
their cosy, artistic home, so snug and 
warm that even the keen lake winds 
could not enter unbidden. While snow- 
storms raged outside, we chatted of all 
the world, and read its books, or 
listened to Tom at the organ, which 
under his touch gave us the great souls 
of the world of music. It was an 
ideal visit and makes another “green 
memory” in my heart. 

December has been just a quiet 
home story for us inside. But outside, 
how sorrowful the world, and I ac- 
complish so little towards making it 
happier, that my brightest hours are 
often haunted. If some one would 
only show me how to do more ; “cry- 
ing in the night, crying for the light, 
and with no language but a cry.” I 
see no way out of the puzzle, or out of the 


190 The Song of a Heart. 


darkness, except to do what we can, 
and hold desperately to our faith in 
God, and in the glorious time coming 
when the scales of the Universe shall 
swing even and come to rest. With 
this I sing a lullaby to my tired soul, 
and as the days and months pass I 
would even give them a light, hurrying 
push if it were possible. 1896 has not 
been one of the brightest years, but 
now that it is almost gone, I remember 
the sunshiny days outside and in, and 
my farewell to it however gravely 
spoken, is followed by a smile. I am 
only half way through my book. There 
will be blank pages at the end. I 
wondered in the beginning whether 
there would be enough. But this is 
only the preface. The years and 
centuries and ages stretch on in in- 
creasing loveliness before us. Life 


The Song of a Heart. 191 


and growth and love, soul satisfying, 
never ending. How fleeting the sor- 
rows and disappointments of these fast 
flying years ; like a dream of the night 
when the sun rises over the land. 
Patience and silence my soul — “the 
night is far spent,” the glory of the 
everlasting day is even now coming up 
over the horizon. Hush, and listen for 
the songs of the angels. 

Welcome a thousand times 1897. 
One year nearer the realization of the 
Great Hope for all earth’s suffering 
children. 

“ Yet a little while, 

Yet a little way, 

We shall reap, and rest and smile, 

All the day : 

Up ! let ’s trudge another mile.” 


192 The Song of a Heart. 


Washington, D. C., September , 1900 . 

The year welcomed so warmly by 
Margaret proved to be her final one. 
The ‘Tittle while,” the “little way,” 
the last milestone — all are past ; the 
last entry in the Journal has been 
made. For several months her friends 
knew that she was not well. The per- 
fect health she enjoyed nearly all her 
life was breaking at last. There was 
no pronounced disease ; only a gradual 
weakening of the nervous system, a 
growing exhaustion. The gay-hearted- 
ness which naturally belonged to her 
became fitful and wavering. Happy as 
she was in her home and husband, 
the wrongs and sorrows of the world 
pressed heavily on her soul and took 
much sweetness out of her life. 

Whenever she was more than usually 


The Song of a Heart. 198 


tired, she longed for the sea, and thither 
she was taken as soon as the weather 
became warm and settled. In the quiet 
cottage so close to the shore that she 
could sit whole days on the beach, her 
light meals served out of doors, she 
spent the closing months of her earthly 
life. The physician had forbidden any 
excitement, and excepting short visits 
from her brothers, Alfred and Tom, 
none were with her but her husband, 
Hugh, and one of her girlhood friends. 

She would sit quiet for hours watch- 
ing the sea-gulls and sky, and listening 
to the dash of the waves. At other 
times she flashed up into her old bright- 
ness, till it seemed impossible to believe 
her anything but well. Her enjoyment 
of beautiful sunsets, the green shore, 
clear air and blue sky was keen as ever, 


194 The Song of a Heart. 


‘‘the light that never was on sea or 
land” filling her soul with something 
more than happiness, her love for those 
dear to her burning more brightly with 
the passing weeks. 

The summer was an unusually beau- 
tiful one. Day after day came and 
went without a cloud, the air crystal, 
the sea sapphire. At the close of such 
a day, she sat with her husband watch- 
ing the sky, gorgeous with approaching 
sunset. “Jack, dear,” she said, “draw 
your chair so near that I can put my 
head on your shoulder ; I want to talk.” 
When he had done so, she talked a 
while of her own happy life, and then 
said softly, “Everything will be right 
for everybody some day, you believe, 
Jack?” “Yes, Madge, I believe it.” 
“And you and I will be together where 


The Song of a Heart. 195 


we shall see and know it.” “Yes, 
dear . ’ ’ She lifted her hand and stroked 
his cheek. “I dearly love you, Jack; 
I always shall.’ ’ Then silence, then a 
long, sighing breath. Earth was still, 
the sea was hushed. Only a sea-gull 
rose from the water, sailed across the 
sky and down again so close we could 
hear the rush of the white wings ; or 
was it the sweep of an angel’s pinion? 
The spirit world seemed very near, and 
its portals wide open. 

As she was carried in through the 
low cottage door-way, the after glow of 
the sunset glorified the prostrate figure, 
and touched its crown of dark red hair 
till it shone like an aureole around the 
pale, reposeful face. Night was coming 
on, but it brought no darkness, for oyer 
the eastern horizon, the full moon, large 


196 The Song of a Heart. 


and luminous, was floating upward, 
and its soft brightness, filling the earth 
and reaching far out into space, lighted 
the way to the Eternal City. 


















































































Cbe 8ong of a Heart. 


press Comments. 


The book breathes a lovely spirit, and one can not bnt feel that 
were there more such souls on earth as the one which speaks 
from every page, the world would be a better and happier abode. 
The book is daintily gotten up in gray covers, upon which is a 
branch of holly with its green leaves and red berries, whereon 
perches a bird .— Boston Transcript. 

There has come to our table a little book decidedly out of the 
ordinn'y in its motive and method, but one which we feel sure 
will afford pleasure to a large class of thoughtful readers. it's 
title is '‘The Song of a Heart,” by Helene Hall (Mrs. II. V. Boynton). 

The whole is comprised in less than 200 small pages, a narrow 
compass within which to tell the story of a life, its leading inci- 
dents and interests, its deep experiences of love and sorrow, its 
family attachments, its friendships, its grave wondetings and its 
modest judgments. But it is all done with simplicity, essential 
fulness and distinctness. In the nature of the case it is a sketch ; 
bin it is free, sincere, vital, suggestive, in a degree that causes 
one to marvel how the story could be developed in a manner so 
satisfying for its completeness. Before one has read it through 
the fine significance of the title becomes obvious. There is 
nothing extraordinary in the nature or the circumstances of the 
life portrayed. The lovable girl and woman, who sets down once 
a year brief memoranda of what her life has been and what it 
lias meant, has no distinction except native good sense and large 
capacity of appreciation of goodness and beauty. It is a charming 
portraiture of one such woman, whose lot was* the common one. 
without great fortune, without strange experiences, without 
exaggerated passions, but loyal, wholesome, glad, reverent and 
sympathetic, a type of the thousands of American women, 
scarcely known beyond their domestic circle, whose wealth is 
virtue, * whose life is service, whose joy is affection. Only a 
woman could reveal a woman of this character, with adequate 
sympathy. She is one for whom the professional writer of fiction 
has little use. She would hardly be available for any other 
fiction than this autobiographic form, if indeed, this be not more 
truth than fiction. At all events, it is a genuine revelation of 
womanhood in its proper nobility and peculiar grace .— Boston 
Herald . 

‘‘Helene Hall” is the pen name under which Mrs. H. V. 
Boynton of this city has written this dainty story. Yet it is 
hardly a. story, for it is in the form of an annual diary, the 
entries being made each Christmas day. But inasmuch* as it 
tells the tale of a woman’s life, with its lights and shadows, its 




